Glacial Treasures
by blob80
Summary: HitsuRuki. A collection of twenty-five (mostly) interrelated shorts. Hitsugaya's POV, unless otherwise stated. Contains both AU and canon-compliant chapters. Ratings vary.
1. Cherish

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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**_Cherish_**

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_**What is Rukia to you?**_

The question came like lightning, or rather, the memory of it did. Despite having been asked by the Sixth Division Lieutenant Abarai Renji more than half a century ago, it still managed to give Tōshirō pause. Although he wasn't sure if it was because, regardless of his eloquence in most situations, he still couldn't manage to cobble an answer that sufficiently conveyed exactly how much he cherished her or if it was because it was her childhood friend that had asked the question. Then again, perhaps it was a mixture of both.

Tōshirō didn't doubt that every high-ranking officer within the 13 Divisions spent decades honing their skills, but Abarai was different. His _goal _was different. He had done it not for power or influence, not for renown, not even for the sake of it; he'd invested time and blood for nothing more than the _chance _to stand beside Rukia as an equal. He was her precious childhood friend from the tough streets of South Rukongai's 78th District, and he deserved more than some barely considered string of words from the man that had swooped in and claimed one of the greatest driving forces in his life.

A half-baked response to that question would be detrimental to his relationship with Rukia and to those she cared most for—those he needed, _wanted_ to get along with. Abarai would see right through him anyway. More importantly, Tōshirō would kick himself for not pondering over his words more in the years to come. Soul reapers lived long lives… too long for things like resentment and regret.

So, he did what any sensible man back then would've done.

He closed his eyes, shrugged, and kept his silence.

Abarai—expectedly—tried to throttle him.

Tōshirō wasn't a captain in just name though. That little attempt had ended so poorly that he was sure Abarai still remembered it in the middle of the night when great embarrassments usually haunted people. Much like how he remembered Abarai's question every now and again when he was feeling particularly restless. Although it wasn't embarrassment that had engraved it so deeply into his memory, but rather puzzlement. Yes, he'd been a mix of surprised and mortified by the question when Abarai had asked, but more than that, he was simply baffled by it. Tōshirō was rarely stumped by anything. He hated how, year after year, in spite of all of the time he spent in Rukia's company, he still struggled to construct a good enough answer. He had meant to respond to Abarai sooner—much, much sooner—but days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into nothing.

Like every other captain, time getting away from him was a valid excuse. Hell, it was for any seated soul reaper. But when Tōshirō considered the typical standards that he so often held himself to, it wasn't good enough. It wasn't even near the benchmark.

_We're already married. Abarai probably doesn't even care about my answer now, _he thought, although somehow he doubted it. _Responding might cause unnecessary drama... is it worth rehashing the past?_

Tōshirō turned his head to look at Rukia, who slept against him. Despite the nature of her sword—and likewise, her soul—everything about her in that moment was warm. She wasn't at all affected by the natural coolness he exuded. If she regulated her body temperature while she was sleeping someway or if she was just so used to the iciness of his presence, he didn't know, but he made a mental note to ask her one of these days. Rukia looked, for lack of a better word, content. Every wrinkle was smoothed over when she slept. While Tōshirō adored her smiles, peace suited her just as well. He wondered if she had this same look of torpid bliss when she lived in Inuzuri. Tōshirō doubted it, but not being able to say so for certain—the way a certain tattooed red-head could—killed him inside. Instead, he had to rely on stories.

Rukia exhaled, just scarcely audible, before snuggling closer.

Between watching her curl so comfortably around him and controlling the faint, unreasonable jealously that speared through his chest, he decided that it would be worth answering Abarai's question. Frankly, he was tired of it plaguing him. If nothing else, it would give him peace of mind. And that was worth so much more than he could ever fathom.

_But after all these years, I still don't know what to say._

His feelings for her were so intense that it was hard for him to put into coherent sentences. Tōshirō thought that words of such magnitude would always feel as if they lacked substance. He'd always been the type to do rather than say, and being tacit was one of his strong points. While he'd learned over the years that actions existed to prove words and not sit in place of them, going against his wordless nature was difficult.

Tōshirō turned on his side, so that he was facing Rukia. She shifted in response to his movement, though not by much because he drew closer, so that she wouldn't fall forward onto her stomach from the sudden change in position. Her eyes opened ever so slightly. Tōshirō caught a glimpse of stark violet. His thumb traced her cheek, coaxing her away from the land of dreams so that he could appreciate them in their true glory. Rukia blinked too fast for him to count, and for a moment, her eyes opened in full. Even though they were a bit dazed from slumber, they still managed to shine like too bright stars in the darkness of their room. Rukia smiled crookedly at him.

But the moment passed, her face evened out again, and then she was sleeping once more.

He wasn't at all prepared for the sheer amount of affection that bloomed inside of him at the mere sight of her half-awake and smiling. It bubbled, spilling over and bleeding into his veins to envelope every fiber of his being. Tōshirō's cheeks heated at the remembrance of her grin, and he found himself mimicking it. She couldn't see it, and there was no one around to tell her. Tōshirō wouldn't. The walls would most definitely keep his secret. That would be her penalty for falling asleep when he deliberately woke her. It might've been unfair, but… so was she.

Rukia was the most unfair woman he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting.

She contradicted everything he'd ever known. A graceless Inuzuri street urchin turned noble; a hardworking soul reaper that broke the greatest rule in Soul Society; a body that alternated between the living and the dead to discharge the ice that he so adored. She wasn't someone to be protected like his childhood friend, Momo. Neither was she someone that he was responsible for keeping in line like his Lieutenant, Matsumoto. She was small, but her entire being demanded respect. Tōshirō didn't mind—of course he didn't. He could do respect, especially if the person deserved it.

Rukia could be submissive when the situation called for it. She knew when to be silent and draw back. After being trained in all manners of noble etiquette by servants from the Kuchiki family, compliance was practically instilled into her. But what really interested him was how that training could disappear at the drop of a hat. Unlike so many others, she didn't reel back when he got angry. Instead, she'd match his fury, word for word, breath for breath, until they were both shouting. It wasn't always good. Being with her drained him some days, but Tōshirō was never one to back down from a little hardship. And he loved how, once they grew closer, she had no qualms calling him out whenever she believed that he was making a mistake. Her courage might've sometimes wavered, but her values never did.

She paralleled him in every way that it counted, providing enough contrast that he wasn't stuck with a clone of himself.

_**What is Rukia to you? **_Tōshirō heard Abarai's voice in his head. The sound of it was more faded now than it had ever been. He already knew why though.

She was… she was…

_Rukia is a pillar, _Tōshirō finally settled. He was sure that was a different answer from the one he would've given fifty—even twenty—years ago, but his feelings for her had evolved a lot since then._ Someone I can lean on in times of adversity and need. A dock that I can moor myself to after suffering through endless seas. Someone I can hold for warmth in an edgeless expanse of ice._

It was flowery, maybe even a little absurd. He'd be uncomfortable saying anything other than the first sentence out loud, but at least he had found his answer.

_She's someone I want by my side, _he considered and found that to be—not quite as adequate, but—a good follow-up to his first line. Tōshirō didn't want to voice the rest of his thoughts unless he absolutely had to. Hopefully never while she was within hearing distance.

Suddenly, he was glad that he had decided to wait before answering. He felt like he had more of a right to answer Abarai now that he had a few decades with her under his belt. Where before he was a greenhorn, now he was a specialist. He reveled in the realization.

Tōshirō made a promise to himself to talk to Abarai properly tomorrow because right now…

"Rukia," he murmured, pressing his lips to hers in a brief, but lingering kiss. She stirred, though she didn't rouse. After ruminating for a bit, he was glad for it. Because… "I can't fight your eyes. I never win."

Tōshirō hugged her. They weren't chest-to-chest; Rukia was much smaller than him after his growth spurt. Instead, he cocooned himself around her. As much to keep her safe from the world and its horrors as to tether himself to her, so that she'd remain by his side in the years to come; so that she'd feel loved. He wanted her to feel every ounce of his tender affection, wanted her to feel so treasured that she'd be able to say his name with cheer and absolute _delight_ every time someone asked who her husband was.

Soul Society didn't change much, but it did change. Throughout the coming centuries, Tōshirō swore that he'd be there to love and to care for her. She didn't need his protection, but he'd offer it anyway, and he'd be exultant every time she'd accept it. If nothing else, those things would remain steady truths.

Rukia was his just as much as he was hers. It was simple and infuriatingly complex all at once. But his overactive mind would eventually grow bored if it was one way or the other anyway.

Tōshirō closed his eyes and allowed her soft breaths to lull him into a long and peaceful slumber. Darkness speared across his consciousness like a silent, inky sky. It grew larger to swallow him whole, until even his thoughts of her—as immense as they were—disappeared completely from his mind.

He was content, however, with the knowledge that she'd be there when he awoke. Rukia would be safe and happy in a room that, despite spiraling with his ice-cold spirit energy, still managed to hold some semblance of warmth.

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_A/N: Fair warning to everyone that reads my writing... I do a lot of narration, especially in my short story collections._

_Please review._


	2. Breach

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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**_Breach_**

_What to expect: A little melancholy. A little introspection. A whole lot of affection waiting for a chance to blossom. (Dashes of IchiRuki for flavor included.)_

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Tōshirō reclined back against the couch. He had a cup of steaming tea in one hand and no less than a dozen reports in the other.

He'd been wasting away in Inoue Orihime's home after days spent recuperating. Sitting around and meditating was beginning to make him antsy, especially when Tōshirō just _knew _that piles upon piles of paperwork awaited his return like a terrifying lover that he couldn't quite shake. So, he'd taken the liberty of having them send a few stacks over so he could at least _dent _what expected him when he got back.

It was between shuffling through the pages and trying to decipher the handwriting of a soul reaper with particularly childish script that he wondered how the other divisions got their work done, notably the Eleventh and Eighth Divisions. Tōshirō was practically swimming in a sea of papers every morning, and that was taking into account the fact that he not only finished his on time, but spent enough hours doing overtime that he was sure he'd grow hunched in his old age. Tōshirō seriously debated if those two divisions were exempt from paperwork—he needed that same privilege, if just for a day—or if their obligations had been pushed onto other divisions and that was why he was always drowning in reports.

Tōshirō suddenly shook his head. He was getting distracted. These reports weren't going to read and sign themselves. He didn't know where Orihime was, but it wasn't late enough yet that he was particularly worried. Matsumoto, on the other hand, had taken one look at the work he had sent, wrinkled her nose, and walked right out the door. He didn't bother asking her where she was going. Tōshirō needed _peace, _and she was the epitome of everything peace wasn't. Besides, she should've known him well enough by now to realize that this was exactly the type of stunt he'd pull. Tōshirō never would've become a captain at such a young age if he wasn't a workaholic after all; natural talent could only get someone so far.

He wasn't completely alone though.

Kuchiki Rukia had come in a little over an hour ago after a spar with Abarai. She claimed that the redhead was still down in Urahara's training grounds, practicing his hand-to-hand combat with Yoruichi.

"Why didn't you go to Kurosaki's?" he had asked.

"His window was locked." Kuchiki shrugged. "No one else was home. I wanted to walk the soreness off a bit, and Renji said you'd be here for the rest of the day. Oh, don't worry. I texted Orihime before coming."

"I'm surprised you don't have your own key to Kurosaki's by now."

"The window has always worked for me. It's rare for me to get locked out."

"But not impossible."

"Well, Ichigo did mention that they were all going to eat dinner somewhere. He even told me the place, but I didn't want to intrude. I think Kon snuck away with them. I forgot to ask Ichigo to make sure that he was in the house, so he could open the window because, well, Ichigo told me all of this right before he went to school."

_It was early. I wasn't paying attention, _was what he basically got out of that spiel.

Tōshirō didn't say anything more.

There was no need.

He focused on his work, while she pattered about the house. At one point, she'd asked him if he wanted to eat anything and he waved her off without so much as a glance in her direction. He heard the sizzle of eggs and bacon in the kitchen. It smelt good, but he wasn't exactly hungry, so he didn't bother. Frankly, he was surprised that she had managed to make something decent actually come out of that kitchen. He was sure that those poor pots and pans had been abused to the point of no return; forced to endure all kinds of unnamable substances. It was a wonder that they didn't spontaneously combust as soon as she set them down on the stove and placed normal things inside.

Kuchiki didn't bother him. She went about her own business, not once turning on the television or making any other sudden noises because of what he was doing. Tōshirō didn't know if she was being considerate because he was a captain, if traits like that had been fixed into her by her older brother, or if she was naturally that thoughtful, but from what he'd seen of her extremely contradictory interactions with Kurosaki, it would be a headache just trying to figure it out.

So, he didn't bother. No use dwelling on something so banal anyway.

Eventually, Kuchiki went to bathe, possibly deciding that it wasn't worth walking around feeling so sticky when she had no idea what time Kurosaki would be back.

He heard the shower run, followed by the tub spout as she prepared to soak for a while. He smelt the faint scent of vanilla in the air. It distracted him for a moment longer than it should have. Then, as if she wanted to assault _all_ of his senses, the smell was followed by the sound of her humming. It invaded his mind more than any amount of shouting could. Not because she had a particularly hideous or soothing voice, but because there was something about melodies that just made them so much more difficult to tune out. Tōshirō put both his teacup and his papers down, before closing his eyes in an attempt to flush the rest of the world's noise as if that might enhance his gigai's hearing enough so he could hear the soft tune.

Tōshirō eventually did, although it was only after she shut the tub spout off. It wasn't anything he was familiar with. Surprisingly, it sounded like something Matsumoto would hum while completely shit-faced. Where did she learn that? He doubted her brother would ever willingly let her near any unsavory types while growing up.

_Her file did say she grew up with Abarai in Inuzuri, _Tōshirō thought, thinking of the scum that lived there._ I guess she could've learned it from some old drunk there. Then again, Ukitake's her captain. _That man was famous for drinking the days away with Captain Kyōraku whenever the latter managed to get away from his Lieutenant, which truthfully, was often.

He realized belatedly that it wasn't just her humming that he heard… he heard _everything. _The walls were absurdly thin because, with ease, he caught every satisfied sigh, each self-mutter, all of the minute times she brought a limb out of the water to—

Tōshirō _hated _how clearly the images came to him. His imagination was so abhorrently vivid that he seriously considered whether or not she'd casted some kind of Kidō on him, before she stepped inside of the bath. But of course that wasn't true. For one, did something like that even exist? And two, why would she?

But icy spirits, the mental picture inside of his mind was so detailed and so stupidly _vibrant _that suspecting her was all he could do because he absolutely refused to believe that he was in any way a… a…

_Pervert? _Hyōrinmaru offered.

_Hormonal teena—adolescent, _he corrected darkly, uncaring that he'd just referred to himself as such.

_Is that supposed to make it better?_

Why, yes. Yes, it did. By a damn long shot as far as he was concerned.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

Tōshirō instinctively allowed his senses to fan out, realizing in the span of half a breath that it was Kurosaki. He crossed the small distance between him and the door, twisting the insane number of locks—seriously, why in the world did Orihime have _five, six… nine _locks—on the door.

"Yo," Kurosaki greeted.

He was pleasantly surprised when his first name didn't follow. Instead, the substitute soul reaper merely stepped inside with a little paper bag in one hand—had he brought dinner for her?—before doing a quick sweep of the area. Tōshirō felt the moment his spirit energy spread in the same manner that his had. Kurosaki's presence was immense, and he still had trouble controlling his own strength. It was amazing how Kuchiki managed to constantly be in his presence without feeling suffocated by all of that energy. Tōshirō had to draw his own to the surface, a whisper of power right along the edge of his skin, just to keep Kurosaki's from oppressing him.

Tōshirō didn't bother telling him where she was. He realized for himself quickly enough. It was only when Kurosaki started walking towards the door that he stopped him.

"That's the bathroom," Tōshirō said.

"I know."

"… You know?" _Then what the hell are you doing, stupid?_

"How long has she been in there?"

"I wasn't paying attention to the time. Maybe thirty minutes?"

"She sure got comfortable quick."

"She came here after training at Urahara's."

"Yea, she mentioned it," he muttered, before walking forward again.

"She's bathing," Tōshirō hastily said. _Did eating out with his family make him lose it?_

Kurosaki tilted his head back to shoot him a puzzled look. He blinked at him. Twice. Very slowly. "Well, yea, I figured." A pause. "Did Rukia smack you or something, Tōshirō? I know you're a captain and all, but she can be a hammer sometimes."

_Did you always state the obvious? _were the unspoken words.

It was Tōshirō's turn to blink in bewilderment. The reflexive retort he always shot out whenever someone called him by his first name didn't even manage to make it past his lips. By the time he gathered his wits, Kurosaki already had his hand on the doorknob.

"Hey, Kurosaki! What do you think you're do—"

"Rukia!" he called. Steam drifted out as soon as he opened the door. "Rukia, you alive?"

Kurosaki had only opened the door enough to stick his arm with the paper bag through. There was no hint of embarrassment on his face. Nothing to indicate that he was crossing some boundary that he had no right crossing. Everything was all done in one smooth motion, as if he'd done this thousands of time before. Perhaps he had.

"Ichigo," Kuchiki said back, and Tōshirō didn't have to see her face to know that she was smiling.

"I brought your clothes." Ichigo waved the bag. "Is it safe to drop?"

"Yea, it's not wet there. Just don't fling it."

The bag fell.

"Hurry up in there," he said. "This isn't your house, and I brought a little food back for you."

"I'm getting out now." They heard water slush as she slipped out of the tub, then the distinct sound of draining. "Thanks!"

Just as Ichigo closed the door, Tōshirō caught a glimpse of skin as Kuchiki picked up the bag. He got an even fuller glimpse when she leaned forward to wipe at the foggy mirror. But then the door slammed shut, blocking his view. Tōshirō immediately looked away, his ears red. Blood seemed to flow faster in his veins. He clenched his fists and screwed his eyes shut, trying to make it return to normal with nothing more than sheer will.

Thankfully, Kurosaki didn't seem to notice. If he had gotten his own little preview, then he didn't show it. Tōshirō didn't even want to know whether or not he had because that meant only one of two things: either Kurosaki had seen her like that enough times that hiding it wasn't an issue or he wasn't interested and truly did not give a damn—the best option out of the two really.

Either way, this little incident really brought home the fact that maybe, just maybe he was a little bit of a pe_r—h_ormonal adole_s—n_o, healthy, heterosexual_ male_ for not tearing his eyes away as soon as the door opened.

Tōshirō pinched the bridge of his nose in sudden aggravation. These two rivalled Matsumoto in headache-inducing abilities, and they weren't even _trying_. A truly spectacular feat.

They both turned when Kuchiki emerged. She wore a casual, breezy white halter dress. The towel she was using to dry her hair obscured most of her face from his vision. But the sight of her pale skin tinged a slight pink was enough to make Tōshirō swallow inaudibly. His previous fantas_i_—_t_houghts, his previous _thoughts _came back full force. Tōshirō roughly shook his head once, just enough to get every absurd idea out of his mind while the pair had their attention elsewhere.

"Dry your hair properly," Kurosaki said. "It's cold outside."

"I know, I know." She waved him away.

"It's going to snow soon," Tōshirō cut in. "Are you sure you should be wearing a dress?"

Kurosaki shot him that quizzical look again, before he turned to Kuchiki. "He doesn't know?"

"Do you want me to stomp on you?" She watched, satisfied, as he backed up a good four feet. "That's what I thought."

"She asked me to bring her a dress," Kurosaki explained, barely sparing Tōshirō a glance even though he was addressing him.

"I like them."

"Yea, she likes 'em. She'll be fine."

Tōshirō didn't like being kept out of the loop, but he supposed that was inevitable with these two. He knew that she had an ice Zanpakutō, but that didn't mean she was immune to chills. Temperature affected everyone. Even he could only handle the cold up to a certain point. Sure, the distance from Orihime's house to Kurosaki's might not have been that far, but he really couldn't have her getting sick on his watch. Why exactly that was, he didn't question—at least, not right now. There would be plenty of time to ruminate later. As a soul reaper, he had a lot of it.

Tōshirō didn't really think as he grabbed the green scarf that he had discarded hours ago on the couch; didn't really consider the weight of his actions as he moved forward with the confidence of a thousand men to wrap it securely around her neck; didn't really reflect upon their proximity as his taciturn gaze met hers in a vibrant clash of teal and violet that didn't exist in any of the three worlds.

_Well, no, that's not entirely true_, he amended, killing the soft thoughts as soon as they'd come. Some of the dishes Orihime made had a similar conflict of colors. But he really didn't want to think about that, so he focused instead on the noble in front of him.

The only sign of his nervousness was the instantaneous tremble of his hand, before he consciously forced it to cease. He was a soul reaper; he was a _captain—_and he'd be damned if his body disobeyed him. His brain, his heart, _sure. _That was inevitable at times. But not his body, never his body. He'd trained too much for his muscles to not yield to his every explicit command.

Tōshirō stepped back, putting some much needed distance between them.

"Be more mindful, Kuchiki," he said, immensely proud of himself when no bright patches of red colored his cheeks the way they suddenly did hers. "Your brother will worry."

Her eyes widened, and then before he could even contemplate the reason why, she was smiling at him. A damn dazzling smile that pierced through whatever layers of frost he was sure was in his blood, warming him to the bone. Kuchiki snuggled into the scarf like it was the best thing anyone had ever given her, before nodding her head in acknowledgement. He was sure it was his words, rather than his actions that sparked that reaction just then, and he found himself marveling why—_how? _Didn't actions ring louder than words?

But she looked so _happy _that he found it difficult to find a single ounce of worth in that commonly held belief.

"I'll keep that in mind," she whispered. "Thank you."

Tōshirō turned his head to the side, unable to handle the appreciative look on her face. His eyes coincidentally met Kurosaki's. The substitute raised an eyebrow at his actions. It was a breach—in protocol, their relationship, the personal space that Tōshirō valued more than a rare day off. More importantly, it was an abrupt overstepping of bounds. Their captain-subordinate dynamic didn't call for such waywardness. Never had.

Tōshirō had inadvertently gone a foot too far inside of the bubble that sprung up whenever Kurosaki and Kuchiki were together; the one that even Abarai was hesitant to near. It was, dare he say it, far more welcoming than he expected. There was awkwardness there, but it was snuffed out by a ray of grey-white sunshine, just warm enough to not bother him. Though he attributed all of that to Rukia's jovial response to his words. If Tōshirō hadn't said them, then he was certain that this would be a far more painfully inelegant experience.

Kurosaki, for his part, opted not to comment on Tōshirō's strange behavior. He had to give the substitute credit for that, but whatever appreciation he felt instantly evaporated when, instead of speaking to snap Kuchiki out of the brief, but joyful trance that he'd somehow managed to put her in without meaning to, Kurosaki placed a hand on her head and ruffled her semi-dry hair, effectively severing whatever tender connection that had just formed between the two short soul reapers.

"Look at that grin. _Someone's _easily pleased," he teased. Kuchiki's cheeks blazed, and he barely had time to dodge the kick she aimed at his shin. "Let's go home, Rukia."

Kurosaki walked ahead, confident that Kuchiki would jump to catch up after a few smart remarks.

"Did you bring me rice dumplings? I've really been crav—" Kuchiki's eyes widened. She swiveled around and bowed to him; an afterthought, if he'd ever seen one. Tōshirō almost felt insulted. _Almost._ If it was anyone but Kurosaki with her, he would have been, especially after what he'd just done. "Have a good night, Captain Hitsugaya."

"Yea," Tōshirō said, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist.

As soon as the word left his lips, she was once again trailing after the human boy.

Once upon a time, somewhere between desperation and a mundane life in the world of the living, Kurosaki's worth in Kuchiki's eyes rose until it equalled that of her own life—and that worth hadn't plummeted since. Tōshirō understood that kind of closeness; that unwavering sense of devotion, despite differences. He wasn't prideful enough to not be able to admit to himself, and to Hyōrinmaru by extension, that he missed it.

If Kuchiki had managed a relationship with a human of all things, then there was definitely potential for an unexpected friendship for him there, too. Although he was clueless how to go about actually befriending a person.

_Is it even worth it? _he wondered.

The door closed gently behind them.

Tōshirō rubbed the back of his neck in unexpected irritation at their shared departure.

He didn't know how to explain the sudden, hurtful twinge in his chest, but he blamed it on the hot air that he felt emanating from the bathroom. He _really _wasn't good with heat.

_Matsumoto's going to throw a fit if there's no hot water when she comes back._

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_A/N: __Please review._


	3. Acquiesce

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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**_Acquiesce_**

_Summary: The love of his life is dead. This is the aftermath. (__Modern AU. Present Tense.)_

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Tōshirō wakes to the dying echo of church bells.

Blasted things, they are. They chime, they ring, and they never stop. At the stroke of twelve, they go again, reminding him of the torpid passage of time. The voices of the choir follow with their tacky lyrics and too high tunes, he hates it. He's always hated it. This morning, however, he lacks the mood to suffer silently and throws a bottle across the room. He aims for the window—so that it might at least land in front of that noisy church positioned so precisely outside his bedroom window—it hits the wall instead, painting it a blotchy red.

For reasons beyond his own admittedly limited knowledge, he is on the floor beside his bed, unsure himself how he even managed to get home. All he remembers are the blurs of his old friend, Matsumoto Rangiku, the sting of whiskey, and the smile of a woman he'd rather not recall. Not yet. The memories are still fresh and the hurt is too real, and so he fists his fingers in his sheets and drags them down until he's covered head to toe in the lingering scent of fabric softener and a scent he doesn't know.

Tōshirō shuts his eyes to the world, to his thoughts. He doesn't want to think right now. He doesn't want to reminisce of the past or to hear the laughter that echoes in his head every morning. It's a burden his sleep addled mind can't handle. So, he clenches his lids.

And when the bells finally still and the outside world quiets enough, he falls asleep.

He doesn't dream.

When he wakes again, it is night. That much he knows. But even if it isn't, then it might as well be. Because he's fully content with letting time pass today. He doesn't bother checking the clock. He doesn't crack open a window or even change his clothes. His phone lies forgotten on the nightstand, beeping green with unread notifications.

Instead, Tōshirō pours himself a cupful of an unknown malt that her sister gave them years ago, saved for a special occasion. He's feeling special now. He brings the bottle to his nose, and its aggressive scent makes him draw back. The dryness of its flavor, however, soothes him in ways that only liquor can. It burns all the way down until he forgets who the bottle even came from.

There's something decidedly addicting about the way it slips down his throat, warmly settling in the pit of his stomach—it grumbles in protest of course. Traitorous thing. And he's suddenly reminded that he hasn't eaten. When the last time he did is also a mystery. He hopes nothing in the refrigerator spoiled while he's been—not living—_existing_ in their shared apartment, but he doesn't quite care enough to check. Tōshirō makes a mental promise to do so soon though.

Before bed. After drinking.

_Soon_, he reaffirms, knowing he's never been one to keep banal promises like that to himself.

Once the bottle is drained dry and his head is swimming in the aftermath, he can't quite remember whether or not he kept that promise. Probably not. Though he's past the point of caring for longer than a second, and when he splashes ice cold water over his face and settles against one of his creaky dining room chairs, only then does he realize that he couldn't eat even if he wanted. There's a little note tacked on his refrigerator door, held up by a magnet as old as him. He can't help but stare at the familiar round scrawl. It certainly isn't his. It's too neat, too careful. There's a bunny with spiky hair that look suspiciously like his pushing a cart on the side.

_Grocery List_, he reads, ticking off each mundane thing in his head. _Bread, milk, butter, yogurt, tomatoes…_

Tōshirō hops to his feet with more force than necessary, successfully toppling the chair, as he rips the note into shreds. He can't remember the last time he's gotten so worked up, but the anger coursing through his veins feels good. Perhaps it's the alcohol at work. But even in his bleary-eyed haze, he can't quite convince himself to believe that.

Later, as he reclines upon his couch, staring up at a portrait of some random landscape upon his wall, he sneers. It was a hideous thing. How could he not have noticed how ugly it was? A dash of vibrant color in his otherwise sleek, monotone room. Tōshirō can almost hear her telling him how much she likes it. Almost. Because when he looks around, he's by himself. His reflection is his only companion. Tōshirō raises his glass to it, toasting himself in his isolation. He tries to smile, but finds himself frowning instead.

He refills his glass in preference.

Tōshirō takes the painting down later that day and leaves it out for the waste collectors. Where it belongs, along with that ticking clock that always drives him crazy in the mornings. He watches on in disinterest as a black-spotted cat with an awful snarl moseys along beside it, tilting its head to stare in silent contemplation, before clawing the picture in three angry halves. His mouth twitches then, maybe it even turns up, he can't say for certain. It's been so long since he's smiled. But watching the remnants of that painting hang lifelessly from its frame satisfies him—somehow.

An unprecedented amount of time passes after that barely worthwhile event. Tōshirō doesn't know how long, but his friend, Hinamori, drops by. Always checking in on him. She asks questions sometimes. Other times she talks about work, their friends, recent events—_how are you doing? Where have you been? Hisagi got hitched!_—but recently, Hinamori is only quiet. She falls into one of his creaky chairs and sits with him. No other sound but the steady exhales that escape them both.

Tōshirō thinks he prefers the quiet. Though he doesn't tell Hinamori that. He likes it. He likes not being alone, too. So, he doesn't make Hinamori leave—the pain of loneliness is still too sharp. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all. Only keeps his chin in his hand and his eyes upon the now empty space over his shelf. They both ignore the stain on his wall, and Tōshirō thinks that Hinamori makes some off-handed comment about his growing stubble, but doesn't know if he only imagined it. Because when he looks at his friend, her lips don't move and she only raises one solitary eyebrow in silent question.

Tōshirō looks away then.

Hinamori is… afraid, Tōshirō knows. She's afraid for him. Because she doesn't know how to help. She doesn't know what to do. She used to hug him when they were younger; smile and pat his head until all of his worries drifted away like dust in the wind. Tōshirō isn't so small anymore though, and being comforted by another woman right now makes his gut twist in disdain, so unbridled and so _sudden _that he questions whether the emotion is even his.

_You don't have to do anything_, Tōshirō wants to say, but doesn't bother. He knows there's an argument waiting somewhere there, but he doesn't feel like talking more than necessary right now, nor does he want to get chastised.

Old friends knew how to cut deep. Tōshirō doesn't want to feel anything right now.

And so, they sit together in silence.

It is deafening.

Hinamori leaves soon after. Leaves a basket, too. It's filled with bread and jam and instant coffee packets. There's even two bottles of water inside. It seems his friend took on the mantle of one-woman care package delivery service. It suited her… unfortunately. Tōshirō appreciates it all the same.

Hinamori certainly deserves more than his lifeless silence.

Although Tōshirō's stomach doesn't grumble and he certainly doesn't feel like it, he eats. Because he knows that he must. Because he can feel her disapproving fingers pinching his shoulders, cupping his face, telling him that he needs food. That he hasn't had anything for the past two days and that he needs to at least go through the motions of taking care of himself in her absence.

So, he takes one bite and drains a bottle dry, then leaves the rest for later. Because he hates how easily he can go on without her.

Food, money, and time.

_I'll survive easily enough_, he thinks.

He hopes.

Tōshirō sleeps when he's tired and answers the phone when he feels like it. Emails pop up and payment notices turn into piles on the table. He takes an extended break from work because their pitying glances make him sick. All the invitations to weddings and parties—those wretched things—those he lets accumulate. Some he even burns. Angered by that little plus one box at the very end, written in elegant script, as if that would make him appreciate it more. It doesn't.

The days carry on.

After more time passes and he finally masters himself enough to step through the doors of what is now only his apartment, he finds a man there waiting for him, his hand poised to knock. He steps back, startled, before standing up straight and looking him right in the eye. His eyes are light and deep and dimmed by age, but he knows those eyes.

"I'm her father," he says as greeting. There is something prickle-y in his words, or rather, the way he says them. Tōshirō hardly hears, but registers just enough for his mind to remind him that they had a strangled relationship. She grew up with her sister and her brother-in-law.

So, why was this man here? What did he want from him? Why even show up?

"I… see," is Tōshirō's intelligent reply. His voice is hoarse and unused, and he can't help but think that he should say more. That he should show his gratitude or maybe even apologize for reasons beyond reason, but he can't. The words bend in his throat, gone like so many startled birds.

So, he stands there. They both do.

A moment passes. As long as an age and as quick as a second. Discomfort shakes Tōshirō's body. He just wants to leave the house. Why does he have to talk to anyone? Just as Tōshirō moves to stride past the man, he starts yelling.

For as much as he loved her voice, her father's was like acid to his ears.

Tōshirō doesn't listen. Well, he tries not to. Moments like this have always made him deem his stellar hearing and observational skills flaws. Because even though he isn't at all interested in what this failure of a man has to say, his mind registers, processes, and files all of it away for a time when the information might be useful. Her father blames him for some ungodly reason, but it wasn't his fault. It was an accident. He just wants to pin it on someone; to play the victim during grief. Is Tōshirō a victim, too, then? He certainly feels like one.

Tōshirō simply looks at him. He thinks he looks menacing or… he usually might. The frowning wrinkles around her father's lips and eyes speak only of past grievances, but right now, they pull down in such a way that made him seem sad. Perhaps even more than him.

_Well_, he thinks numbly, _for all of his faults, __he was her father_.

"Are you even listening?" he yells, snapping Tōshirō back to attention.

"No," he says, honest.

Her father's eyes widen in disbelief. He opens his mouth to scream again, and Tōshirō watches a single tear fall down the length of his cheek, before Tōshirō closes the door in his face. Leaving the house was obviously a mistake. Her father shouts and bangs on the door, rattling the knob for a long while, until the landlord—bless that fat man and his love of cheap television—forces him to leave. The fat man shouts him a warning through the door that Tōshirō merely grunts to.

He feels terrible after, of course.

The emotion ruins him later that night. Along with the rest he keeps bottled up inside his chest. But there's no more alcohol for him to drown his sorrows and no more food for him to escape the taste of bitter grief that settles like bile on his tongue. His hopes are broken. He doesn't want to die, but he doesn't particularly want to live either. He's exhausted and lonely and oh, so tender. And the bleeding knot in his stomach keeps on coiling tighter and harsher, until he cries out.

Tōshirō cries himself to sleep that night.

He tosses and turns and tosses again. But when he wakes, his dreams escape him. It seems that even demons are civil enough to only haunt him when he's asleep. He's thankful for that. One thought lingers though—

_I can't live like this._

It isn't a life.

He's tired of flinching from the thought of the future.

So, Tōshirō tries again.

He ambles up to his door, cracking it open and peeking first just in case. Only silence and dust greets him. Tōshirō winces when the old wood creaks louder than usual as he opens it just enough for him to snake past. He quickly sneaks away, quieting his steps and breaking out into a run when his feet touch pavement, feeling very much like a teenager escaping his grandmother's home in the middle of the night again.

And then he just… walks.

There's nothing to do in the city when he's not in the mood to do much of anything. He keeps his eyes on the ground, observing the black pieces of gum on the sidewalk and only flicking them up when he hears a country tune from a dingy, little record shop across the street. The kid working there sighs with tragedy, as he tries to get the old ghetto blaster to play something else. Tōshirō understands. He hates country music. Today, at least. It's nothing but 'c_ry-your-heart-out' _love songs that he's not drunk enough to mope through.

So, he quickens his pace, practically sprinting down the street to get away from that old singer's soulful voice. He needs epic guitar riffs and screaming. Something to drown out the voices in his head.

As he continues on his way, he's unsurprised to find himself in the churchyard with the annoying bells. A circle of graves stand like sentinels around him, spread out in an arrangement meant to be pleasing to the eye. He sees nothing pleasant about this place. Tōshirō's eyes linger upon a bouquet of dying roses with a stick of incense burning beside it. Were the ones that placed that there already over the dead man sleeping? How long did it take? How did they feel when they saw that name engraved upon that stone?

He wants to know.

Because he feels like he's going to lose his mind.

Tōshirō doesn't stop, however, and when he reaches his destination, he can't help falling to his knees before that name, etched as cleanly as the rest. Neither can he stop the tremors that shake him. Or the heavy beat of his heart. The healing wound opens by itself, splintering into something broken, aching, and seeping red, and suddenly, he's raw again.

This isn't fair. There were so many terrible people on this godforsaken planet, so why her?

"Rukia," he sobs, his fingers close convulsively around rock. Promises spill from his lips, as dead as all of his hopes. There weren't that many to begin with. "Was I able to love you properly? Did I make you happy?"

More words, most of them unintelligible.

He wants her to answer, but of course she doesn't. The dead didn't listen to the living. Still, he talks. He talks until his voice is gone and he can't speak anymore because the tears have broken him. His hiccups are clear though, and through the haze over his mind, he thinks that he must look terrible right now. She'd probably scold him for not taking better care of himself.

He wishes she would.

So, he could wake from the nightmare that reality has become. Behind him, two laughing women come outside. They stop immediately when they hear his cries. He feels a sick sort of satisfaction from that. How could they be so happy when he was here, when dozens were here every day—_not_? It wasn't fair. Cheer should be forbidden from a place like this.

But the thought soon leaves him because he sees… her. Tōshirō swears he does. Rukia is standing before him with her pale skin, her dark hair, and her terribly stunning smile. She's laughing happily. Her eyes are laughing, too. Those violet orbs are as stark as he remembers. They're brighter than anything he's ever known.

Tōshirō reaches out in a futile attempt to grab ahold of the past.

Rukia is right there.

He grasps. She disappears.

An expected outcome, but it doesn't stop the rush of disappointment that bursts forth from a dam long crumbling. He lurches forward. His chest heaves, while his shoulders bow from the weight of his grief, until eventually, time slips away from him again. For the final time, he wishes, but he's not naïve enough to believe that would come true. His luck has been awful recently.

For a second, Tōshirō wonders how red his eyes must be.

When his tears finally dry, he turns away from her grave. It isn't hard. He looks out across the churchyard and finds a little girl. She's in front of a grave as well, in a position much like his own, and she is… smiling. He has no idea how. No idea why. But then she turns toward him with puffy eyes and a snotty nose and a ratty looking plush clutched in her hand, and she smiles. A horribly painful smile filled with missing teeth. Obviously not genuine. But it was there, and it still made her look beautiful—as smiles usually did.

Tōshirō _tries _to return it. He even waves a little, just to see the girl's grin widen. A woman—her mother, he assumes—calls out to her. She has glossy dark skin and the most startling golden eyes. Her husband, a blond man with a kind smile, is waiting a distance away.

The little girl waves once more at him before running off. She's quick for a kid with such tiny legs. And Tōshirō watches as she sprints across the yard in a way that would put athletes to shame. Perhaps the ghosts are shoving her away. This isn't a place for innocent children with wide grins. It's still too early for her to have creases lining her forehead.

_Not yet_, he thinks solemnly, _but when?_

Tōshirō looks back down at the grave before him, reading her name over and over again. He spells it out, pronounces it ever so slowly, and allows her name to roll off of his tongue like a prayer, instead of an affliction. He engraves the way it feels to call out to her into every fiber of his being, but especially to his lips, so that he never says it with such overbearing sorrow again.

Her name is such a sweet thing. He loves it.

And, as it turns out, he doesn't lose his mind.

"_You make me weak," _he recalls saying to her one day when his emotions—that were so often under his control—had gotten the better of him. She had a way of getting under his skin, of needling her way through the meticulous walls he'd constructed over the years to distance himself from everyone around him.

Rukia had smiled, cradled his face in her tender, welcoming hands, and said, _"You make me strong."_

The kiss they shared after still makes his chest swell with enough love to stagger him.

Rukia had always showed him different, sometimes better ways to look at the world—as he did for her. Those delicate, but unbreakable feelings are the ones Tōshirō keeps in his heart as he repeats her name over and over again. Each time it leaves him, he only feels himself grow lighter. Even though her name still hurts and something still feels wrong, he knows that something more than words are expelled from his core at this moment.

_It's broken right now, _he thinks, as he rubs the pierced hole in his chest. The scarred, beating thing there throbs from head to toe in response to his ministrations. As if his attention served as permission for it to hurt more. _I wonder how long I'll feel this way._

There was a time before her, so surely there will be an after as well. Although he's not entirely sure he wants that after, he still knows that he'll reach it whether he wants to or not. The thought scares him more than he'd like to admit. Daunting and intimidating all at once. But, he concedes, perhaps by then he'll be more open to the idea of moving on.

The church bells ring, and finally, he allows himself to breathe. Truly breathe. He inhales deep enough for him to gather a few more pieces of himself. Tōshirō's fingers brush her name one final time, before he steps back out into the light.

Distantly, he realizes, that it is morning.


	4. Quietude

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Quietude**_

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Tōshirō didn't know when the noise began.

It was faint. Nothing more than a backdrop that stood no chance against his stellar concentration. His Granny and Momo eased it every time they spoke, although they never quite got rid of it completely. He asked them about it once when he was younger, only for them to tilt their heads at him in confusion. Momo had even laughed, while ruffling his hair.

_You're so silly, Shiro-chan! _he recalled her saying.

When he asked Hyōrinmaru while he was in the academy, the dragon gave him a look that made him feel stupid. Tōshirō never brought it up to him again. But his sword was a reflection of his soul, so he at least knew that Hyōrinmaru felt it whenever the issue plagued him.

As he made his way through the ranks in the Tenth Division, the noise began to come in loud, sporadic bursts that would sometimes last weeks. He actually considered it to be some kind of medical condition. But when he went to get a check-up from the Captain of the Fourth Division, she had smiled and _kindly _asked him to not waste her precious time with something as banal as phantom bells. She had no cure for psychological ailments—not the immediate kind that he sought anyway—and if he wanted one, then he needed to start seeing her regularly and file the necessary paperwork to the first division, so the Captain-Commander could be kept in the loop regarding his condition. He was a genius after all. A prized asset that those on top wanted to keep their eye on.

Tōshirō stopped telling people after that.

It didn't bother him so much that he couldn't live. The sound came and went after all. He considered it to be a special kind of headache that only he had. Tōshirō had always been different, and the ringing did seem to grow louder whenever Matsumoto stumbled into the office, drunk and ready to annoy him.

_That's all it is, _he thought. _A strange headache._

But then his former Captain, Shiba Isshin, disappeared.

There was no relentless tempest of water and wind to hint at the void that would suddenly be left behind, no salty sting digging into the wounds that he suffered from training that day, no outcry of grief as sudden and stark as the ones in the stories that he read about in books, where the comrades of heroes died valiantly on the battlefield. There was only a gentle breeze. As if nothing was wrong. It called out to him, made his head turn for a moment, before he carried on with his paperwork again.

It was when he was informed about it from a sympathetic messenger that the ringing returned with a vengeance. Their office was suddenly filled with so much sorrow and hard anger out of nowhere. Matusmoto didn't drink those first few days. Instead, she'd taken to hanging around the Third Division, where she could revel in the unique solace that only Ichimaru Gin's presence could bring. It left Tōshirō with much needed, albeit unwanted peace.

People died every day. That was just a fact of life—one that he thought he knew well. He couldn't escape the topic after all. When someone passed away, it was gossiped about in the streets of Soul Society by civilians and soul reapers alike. Everyone wanted to know what happened, how, why, and what came next. The Eleventh Division, especially, tossed around the subject of death like nothing.

Courtesy of the Hollows that they hunted, Tōshirō had seen people offed in every fashion imaginable. Quick and effortless, like dual blades slashing diagonally across a man's face. Slow and painful, like poisonous spikes that some Hollows were fortunate enough to have. It blackened lungs and crippled movement, until their enemies were left frothing at the mouth and bleeding through their eyes. Tōshirō had even seen painless through the entrapment of his allies in deep sleeps, so that they dreamt as they were left in a puddle of their own blood.

He'd witnessed death enough to know the exact shades people's skin turned as they lost their vitality, to tell at a glance when it would just be better to kill someone immediately rather than prolong their suffering. Tōshirō could even accurately guess where someone had been sliced based on the loudness of the scream that ripped through their throats. Hardly anything could surprise him anymore. The last time he'd been caught off guard was when members of a team that he was in charge of had their blood painted on the walls in a massacre. Heinous sacrifices to a heinous god.

But never before had it been someone that he was so close to; never before had it been someone that he was sure could mop the floor with him should he ever get serious. Even captains could fall. Tōshirō knew that already. But having the captain of his division vanish without a trace made the ringing explode in his ears. It was a stark reminder of just how _easily _he could lose those that he cared for if he wasn't strong enough to protect them—and even then, if time and fortune weren't on his side, they'd still be gone from him.

Despite the loudness, Tōshirō still managed to ignore the sound practically making his ears bleed for the sole reason that they were expected to pick up the slack with Captain Shiba gone. Their division needed a new captain, and some of the higher ranking officers knew very well that he had already achieved Bankai. The noise lost to work, until eventually, time turned the ringing into something… well, the word bearable would be rather suspect in accuracy, but the sound did become mild enough for him to forcefully disregard it.

A dozen more instances made it intensify after that. Aizen's betrayal, the appearance of the Espada, Matsumoto's surprise parties, idle days spent in the world of the living. Indolence wasn't something he valued, and the human world was filled with it.

But while Tōshirō might not have known when exactly the noise began, he knew when it ended.

_It stopped when—_

"What are you doing?"

Tōshirō looked up from where he'd been leaning against his open door, staring at his shoes, to find Rukia in front of him with her hands behind her back and her head tilted in curiosity. She was in a royal purple yukata. Her hair had been tied back with a small, but undoubtedly expensive clip. He was in similar garb, although his yukata was a pale green that offset the starkness of her own.

"Just thinking." He leaned his head against the door, regarding her. Rukia's eyes were alight with barely contained joy. It was contagious, and he found himself fighting a smile. That look in her eyes never failed to make his chest feel close to bursting. He didn't show it though. Tōshirō merely crossed his arms and coolly said, "You look happy."

She laughed. It was a delicate peal of silver to his ears; a blatant contrast to the ringing that had once profaned every waking moment.

"It's been over ten years since I've gone to this festival. I don't know why, but every time it comes around, I have a mission in the human world."

He leaned forward to whisper against her lips. "Let's enjoy it then."

Rukia blushed, but she didn't pull away. On the contrary, her eyes met his and she beamed once more. She rose up to whatever challenge this was—if it could even be called that—by seizing his hand in hers and running forward. Surprised, Tōshirō nearly stumbled over his own two feet. But he managed to gather his bearings at the last second, before he could be completely dragged away by his thrilled girlfriend.

He stared at her small back.

While he knew now, back then, it had taken him almost a full ten months of being in her company to realize why being around her felt so peaceful. She had silenced that lonesome buzzing in his ears. The fear of closeness, and subsequently loss, had given way for a more tender emotion that was still too fledgling to name. But he was, no, _they _were nurturing that sensation together. They cradled it in their shared hands, and although they might've been a little rough with their handling at times, at the end of the day, they both tended to that strange, growing glacial fire with as much gentleness as they could muster.

Rukia stopped at the mouth of the festival. It was a wide corner where vendors were still setting up their stalls. That those furthest from the center—the ones that most soul reapers would see first—were still preparing showed just how early they were. Rukia turned back to glance at him with a playful little grin that he returned with a much more subdued look, although underneath the surface, he felt no less joyful. He rearranged their hands so that their fingers intertwined. The blush on both of their cheeks was unmistakable. Thankfully, the day was young enough that the festival-goers that he didn't want to see—Matsumoto, Abarai, a dozen more—were nowhere to be found.

"Hurry," she urged. "I want to see the center stalls before the crowds come."

"I doubt they're ready yet."

"I just want to scope out the good ones."

His hand tightened around hers as soon as she started walking. She might've been slow now, but he had no doubt that once she saw something interesting, then she'd race forward without so much as a glance back. Besides, he didn't think he could bear it if the ringing were to return on a night as beautiful as this.

Tōshirō had gotten used to the silence now.

There was no way he'd be able to let her go.

* * *

_A/N: Please review._


	5. Discovery

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Discovery**_

* * *

Tōshirō swallowed.

Her dress was short. Shockingly short.

It was a pale teal number that contrasted sharply with her hair. It complimented her skin and made her eyes pop in a way that so few articles of clothing—that weren't worth a small fortune—could. Oh, he didn't doubt that what she wore now would make lower ranked soul reapers shout into the void about disproportionate pay grades. One look at the way the fabric hugged her curves and fell like fine silk over her skin was enough for him to at least _guess _the cost… just the thought of it had him furrowing his brow. But it had nothing on the kimonos that she wore as a member of the Kuchiki family. Then again, few things could match the cost of their clothing.

Tōshirō crossed his arms and watched as Matsumoto brushed Kuchiki's hair in front of the walnut-wood vanity table in Orihime's home. They—meaning him, Kuchiki, Matusmoto, Abarai, Hisagi, Kurosaki, and a spattering of others—were on their way to something called a 'black-tie event' in order to draw out some eccentric cultist that used his tiny ounce of spirit energy to bait Hollows to the functions that he hosted. How the idiot had managed to survive until now, Tōshirō would never know, but he figured it was better not to question these things and just do his job. Less of a headache that way.

Some of them were posing as couples, while others decided to go individually or as a group of friends. He had assumed that Abarai would be her partner, but one look at her dress told him otherwise. While he was happy that Matsumoto had chosen it because it matched his eyes—as well as the tie that she forced into his hands—he didn't like the fact that people other than him would, well, actually see her in it. He had no right to feel as… possessive as he did. But he supposed that liking someone always made people a little _craz_—_wait. _Did he just think that he liked her? In _that _way?

Tōshirō sneered.

He couldn't think that way before a mission. He'd make mistakes if he favored a subordinate. Matsumoto, of course, was a natural exception. Everyone but her, however, had to be equal in his mind. So, Tōshirō turned his attention to more relevant thoughts… like the two males that would waste him—or at least try—if he insulted her in any lasting way for the short time that they were together. He didn't think that she was soft-willed enough to be hurt by his easily-sparked temper, but Soul King only knew that he had a knack for simultaneously terrifying and offending people with his sharp tongue. Especially women.

Tōshirō knew how to cut deep, and he did it to others often enough for them to avoid his company entirely.

_I bet that at least one of those two are fuming right about now, _Tōshirō thought. That Kurosaki harbored feelings of affection for her was as public as it was natural, considering everything the two had been through together, although even he didn't know if the relationship between them extended to more than just friendship. And it was no secret that Abarai loved her. But whether Kuchiki loved him in return was also up for debate. _I guess they should've been born a little shorter._

Tōshirō grimaced at his own thought.

He returned to watching Matsumoto work. Kuchiki obediently tilted her head this way and that, closed her eyes and opened them in turn, even smacked her lips in a way that Matsumoto grinned mischievously at. She was obviously used to playing the role of dress-up doll, and his Lieutenant was all too happy to take advantage.

When Matsumoto moved to her side to inspect her hair from a different angle, Tōshirō's eyes widened.

_Of course it's backless. _He loosened his tie, prepared to blow a fuse if he didn't get some damn air right about now. Why were the clothes in the world of the living so stupidly restricting? Tōshirō couldn't see the front of the dress from where he stood, but he wondered if it had a low neckline, too. He purposely stepped forward to get a better look and almost sighed in relief when he saw how bizarrely modest it was from the front.

Still, he was expected to have his arm around her for the entire night. That meant brushing against the small of her back, bumping into her bare shoulders, and watching as other men turned to eye her legs whenever they caught sight of the two of them.

_I'd rather fight the Primera Espada._

Matsumoto squealed, before clapping her hands happily. "You're gorgeous!"

Red dotted Kuchiki's cheeks at the compliment. The slight smile on her face betrayed her pleasure. "It's all thanks to you."

"Now, that's not true, but I'll happily take the credit!" Matsumoto whirled around. "Hey, Captain! What are you doing just standing there? You're always telling me to work hard, so look!"

Tōshirō didn't think this counted as labor, but he didn't really feel like arguing with her on this one.

"Captain, say something." Matsumoto pouted in a way that he had no doubt made all kinds of men turn to putty before her.

Kuchiki attempted to placate her.

Frankly, Tōshirō couldn't believe that she really planned to go out with him in that. It was a nice outfit, but surely she could've worn something a little longer. He seriously wondered if she'd flash everyone in the room if a small breeze blew in from an open doorway.

He had to put an end to this madness.

"Isn't it a little"—_much—_"short?" he settled on at the last moment, though it was still enough to rain all over Mastumoto's parade.

Kuchiki looked down. She fiddled with the hem of the dress, as if considering the length, before blushing to the tips of her ears. If Tōshirō was being wholly honest with himself, the sight of her flushed face was the most appealing stain on white that he had ever seen. He wanted to see how far that blush could spread.

He turned his head away before he could match her expression.

Matsumoto, who had opened her mouth to shout at him, nearly dropped the bobby pins in her hands at the sight of her captain staring at the wall that he had abruptly deemed ten thousand times more interesting. He wasn't as smart as everyone claimed if he thought he could hide that half-wistful, half-yearning look in his eye.

"Captain!" Matsumoto shouted, all traces of annoyance forgotten. "When did this happen?"

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_A/N: Please review._


	6. Complement

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Complement**_

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The room dropped a few degrees as soon as she entered.

Their spirit energy mingled, and neither of them made a move to control the swirl of cold. Looks were exchanged, although no words of any significance were spoken. Tōshirō waited patiently for Rukia to finish her nightly routine. He laid his head on her lap once she finally crawled into their shared futon.

She remained seated, while he settled against her legs. The rest of his body was spread horizontally, taking up as much space as possible. Despite the largeness of their bedding, he was tall enough that his legs still touched the cold tatami mats. Tōshirō sighed in relief as soon as he got comfortable. He looked up at her with tired, but alert eyes. Rukia angled her head down to meet his gaze.

"How was work?" he asked.

"Quiet. Just paperwork mostly."

Tōshirō wrinkled his nose, not even wanting to imagine the stacks waiting for him upon his return. A part of him hoped that Matsumoto at least attempted to dent his workload, but he'd been disappointed too many times before to let that thought take root. It was more likely that she took long cat naps every day. He already knew how his conversation with her would go tomorrow—a back-and-forth about work and health, until she'd eventually claim that she was waiting for an explicit order from him. Tōshirō wouldn't trade his lieutenant for the world, but there were days when he seriously considered hiring a _super lieutenant _like what Ninth Division Captain Muguruma Kensei had. Except the sole responsibility of his would be handling all of the administrative tasks that Matsumoto thought too tedious to do.

His thoughts were interrupted by fingers running through his hair. Teal met violet. Rukia massaged his scalp for a while, before pressing her cool hand against his forehead, easing the remnants of the fever that he'd been suffering through for the last day and a half. Tōshirō didn't even think it was possible for him to get a fever. He'd never had one in his—admittedly—short life as a soul reaper, but there was a first for everything he supposed.

"Your eyebrows are furrowed," she said, amused. "You're supposed to be resting. Not giving yourself a headache."

Tōshirō consciously smoothed out his expression. "I've been in bed too long."

"Really? A few of your subordinates said they saw you in the courtyard meditating."

"I didn't say I was in bed all day."

Rukia's lips curved into a crooked grin. She didn't verbally admonish him for his actions. Instead, her fingers delved back into his hair and gave the white strands a tug. He grunted. Not in pain, but because he knew that if she didn't see a reaction, then she'd pull harder.

"That hurts," he lied, then faked another grunt when she did it again.

"You're lying."

"You're not the one whose hair is being pulled."

She yanked, and this time, he hissed. That one actually did sting. Her fingers massaged his scalp after, and although it made the pain dissipate faster, it didn't help the slight twinge of annoyance he felt.

"Rukia…" Tōshirō glared, dangerous.

She met his stare head-on. The icy defiance in her eyes never failed to make a thrill run down his spine. "Don't try that wilting gaze on me. I'm a captain, not your subordinate. Every member from the Fourth Division that we consulted about this strange fever told you to stay in bed."

"I'm fine."

"You're not," she shot back.

Tōshirō clicked his tongue, but didn't refute that. He went on defense instead. "I was just meditating."

"In a light robe. It's freezing outside. Your temperature has been fluctuating too wildly for you to be going out in thin clothes."

How did she find _that _out? Tōshirō didn't know which of his subordinates saw him, but he was going to drown them in work when he found out.

"I had a scarf," he said, while shrugging as best he could in his position.

Rukia's eyes narrowed.

It was mind-boggling, how quickly the tender atmosphere between them could become charged, and before they knew it, they'd be arguing. But this was different. This wasn't a real fight. This was reproach—plain and simple. Tōshirō really hated being scolded by Rukia. She had this way of doing it that struck his core even when the matter was something as banal as this.

Even so, he made no move to pull away.

This would pass. He just had to wait.

_Three, two, o—_

Rukia sighed, alternately resentful and resigned. Her fingers brushed his forehead, checking his temperature. She rubbed the proud bridge of his nose with her thumb, while her free hand settled on his chest. Tōshirō knew enough about her to know that she was focusing on the strong, repeated _thump _of his heart. Assurance, if nothing else. A reminder that he was alive and getting better with each passing hour.

"Stubborn," she muttered under her breath. There was annoyance in her tone, although he heard love in it, too. Rukia bent down to press a momentary kiss against his lips.

"The cold is good for me," Tōshirō said when she pulled away. "Why do you think I like it when you're around?"

Her cheeks colored even as she glared at him. "I'm not going to stay here and take care of you if you wake up feeling worse."

"Now who's lying?"

"Tōs—"

"You're stubborn, too. Stop arguing." Tōshirō made sure to interrupt, before she could say his name. He still hadn't managed to find a good defense against that. He closed his eyes and grabbed her hand, before she could even think about moving it away from his forehead. "And stop worrying. Can't you feel me? I already feel better. I'll be in perfect condition tomorrow. So just…"

Tōshirō reached up, so that he was cupping the back of her neck. He brought her down. Rukia didn't resist, not even when his cool breath fanned over her face and her lips. He whispered in the scant space left between them. Words that were only for her to hear.

"Be here for me now." His eyes met hers, and he smirked. "Think you can do that without arguing, Kuchiki?"

The way she suddenly threw him off of her was expected. Tōshirō laughed, loud and virile, at her red face. He moved quick. It only took him a moment to have Rukia pinned beneath him. He let his full weight fall over her, and she made a huffing sound that sounded something between displeased and indignant.

"You're impossible," he told her between chuckles.

"_I'm _impossible? You're the one tha—"

He saw anger spark in her eyes when he grabbed her cheeks and squeezed—_hard_—to get her to stop talking.

"Sorry? I didn't catch that."

Tōshirō grinned boyishly at her furious expression. Before she could yell at him with that scathing tongue of hers, he bent down so that their noses touched. Her eyes were so bright and so _wild _that he couldn't help the flicker of warmth that speared through his chest. Right now, all he saw was her. He liked it best that way. Even if she was giving him a look that promised bruises if he didn't get off of her soon.

That wasn't an option though.

He opted to cool her fury instead. There was always a surefire way to do that.

"This look," he touched her face. "I love this look."

Rukia turned her head away from him, already knowing what he was doing. "You're so… _unfair._"

"So are you."

She groaned. He knew that she hated how they could call each other out for the exact same things. "You always throw everything I say back at me."

"It's not my fault we match."

"It's infuriating."

"Just do what I do." Tōshirō moved so that he was beside her instead of on top. He faced her on the pillow. "Start taking them for what they are."

"And what's that?"

"Compliments."

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_A/N: The title isn't a typo. This chapter is just fluff typed in about half an hour on my phone before bed. Sorry for any mistakes._

_Please review._


	7. Exhaust

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Exhaust**_

_Setting: Occurs at the end of some war long after the events of Bleach._

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The walk to Rukia's room was a vague struggle. A blurry test of endurance that went by in an instant, yet lasted a lifetime. Tōshirō couldn't count the number of times he snarled at the worried glances of those he passed. He was always too busy stalking away. But he was sure that more than a few of the bored fools that followed him down the halls placed bets on how many times they'd hear an infuriated curse bounce back at them.

Tōshirō passed a prayer room during his walk, and for reasons he couldn't fathom, he found himself slipping inside. He was greeted by tacky lyrics and disgruntled stares as soon as the door creaked closed behind him. The room reeked of incense and dust. It made his nose itch. The songs made his ears bleed. And the soft light from the candles did nothing to soothe his sight; it only made him question his already failing senses. He'd been wounded numerous times before, but the recent string of battles had left him unable to even tilt his head without a shot of pain spearing up his spine.

He quickly decided that he hated this place. It wasn't much of a revelation. But even though he felt like he profaned the ground he walked on, he trudged onward.

Tōshirō fell to his haunches in front of the smallest altar there. It was tucked away in a lonely corner of the room. A statuette of two gods he didn't know stood upon it. Their figures were entwined and lasting. He wasn't familiar with whatever faith this particular prayer room practiced, but thankfully, there was a plaque at the bottom that told him that once upon a time, this strange pair had been lovers during war. It conveniently left out _which _war, but he wasn't surprised. Thick vines had grown around the idol, turning it into a permanent fixture on the wall. Light flooded over it from a cave-in along the ceiling.

Like the rest of this quarter, this place was little more than ruins after the latest blood war. A hidden shrine long abandoned by the majority of its worshippers. The pews and altars that remained were all damaged; the rest likely sold over the years. The passage of time was unnoticeable here. The world stood still, undisturbed by the sins of men. Here, walls could break and hearts could be wrenched open. There were no witnesses. Only strangers, malefactors, and sisters. Most believed that they were blessed. Tōshirō knew better. Only the damned stood by him, unable to judge. Yet, they continued to stare in unabashed disbelief, unable to accept the fact that a man—a _captain_—as proud and as independent as him, in a mess of weary limbs and tired eyes, entered their holy ground with a look that would've made a beggar tremble in pity. Yet, dignity remained somehow.

It took years to properly kill pride.

Tōshirō's disappeared in an instant.

He reached for purchase, only to grasp air, as he caught himself on his palms. Tōshirō's forehead touched the ground in an act of pure desperation. His mind was filled with red. So much red. The stone's cool texture was a balm against the heat that he felt inside of him—just waiting to burst forth—and he screamed into it, unleashing the coil of steel and unease that knotted its way around his throat. Tears prickled along the edge of his vision. His fingers dug into what must've once been a priceless rug, before the candle wax ruined it.

But the only thought that graced him now was an imagined image of the Soul King, and his power to turn miracles into reality. Tōshirō wasn't a believer. Not a devoted one anyway. His faith was less stable than his temper. But here, just this once, he prayed. He didn't care that it wasn't the _correct _place of worship—_a shrine was a shrine damn it!_ A real god would listen to him no matter where he did this.

He spilled his hopes into the stone, and he quieted that terrible voice in his head that commanded him to do more than he thought possible. He'd always been hard on himself, harder now because he'd reached his limit when there was still so much left to do. Everything he had once held in his grasp; everything he tried so fiercely to protect—was _breaking_. He couldn't even relish in Hyōrinmaru's guiding presence, drained as the dragon was. His sword's spirit slipped into a deep slumber days ago, and he hadn't heard from him since.

So, Tōshirō reached unknowingly for salvation. From what? He wasn't certain. But by the end of it, he felt a wash of disappointment drizzle over him. He swore his pride was wailing in a corner right about now, banging its head against a wall, trying to wake him up.

He was already awake though… and exhausted. The entire ordeal wasn't as eye opening as he thought it'd be.

But it was enough.

It was only after his throat tore itself raw that he stood from his position. He was alone now. A blessing in and of itself. The candles were blown out. The incense gone from the tables. Even the sisters scurried away, off to sing their songs of praise somewhere he couldn't hear. If his surroundings were always this peaceful after prayers and breakdowns, then perhaps he'd do it more often.

Tōshirō left without another look back.

After countless self-reprimands and deprecating remarks of motivation, he finally found himself standing before two double doors made of solid wood, four inches thick. Of course Kuchiki Byakuya would be able to get his dear sister the most expensive, most stable looking room within this crumbling excuse of a once grand Fourth Division clinic. He was barely able to push one of the doors open without wincing.

Once he slipped inside, Tōshirō was happy to find a chair already prepared for him to fall into. Almost as if Byakuya had known he'd come. Perhaps he did. With the way some injured members of the Sixth Division watched him, he couldn't discount the possibility of the elder Kuchiki keeping tabs on him. The chair was positioned by the window at the far end, but the room was small enough for him to be close to everything. Tōshirō stared at the sun through the window, burning its way ever upward. There were no clouds in sight. He wasn't particularly enthused by that. It made the room too loud, too cheerful, too... everything.

Tōshirō turned to look at Rukia's face instead. He exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding at the sight of her. She looked as if only a few scant hopes held her together, but she was all right. Drained, yes. Vulnerable, definitely. But safe. More so now that he was here.

She'd live. He knew she would.

Rukia had gone through worse.

"You're too stubborn to die," he muttered, while staring at the wrinkle between her brows. Tōshirō resisted the urge to step forward and smooth it out with his thumb. "Don't worry. So am I."

Tōshirō observed her for a long while after that. He was enraptured. Like she was an inconceivable shaft of light deep below ground where nothing but his demons were allowed. He called her name. It glided from his lips, before he even realized what he was doing. When Rukia shifted to face him—like she could hear him calling her—fire bloomed in his chest. Her face smoothed over, and the thought of her being so utterly relaxed in his presence gladdened him.

Her comfort almost made him jealous. Tōshirō scowled in petty resentment at her ease, but it didn't last long because watching her like this was a balm to the stone-cold fury that sat in his stomach for Soul Society's many enemies.

Keeping her in sight had become an odd necessity over the years. He didn't know when exactly it happened, but she had become a constant in his life. An anchor throughout the times he needed it most. The thought of her by his side reassured him in ways he didn't think possible.

Tōshirō's feet moved of their own accord, carrying him closer to her. Rukia didn't stir again. Not even when the chair scraped loudly against the ground, making him wince and nervously look over. He traced an aimless path along the back of her hand, taking care to hold her just firm enough to reassure himself. She had suffered so many injuries already. He'd be damned if he was the cause of another.

Once he was satisfied, his hand fell back to his side.

Soul Society might have been destroyed—_again_—but at least she was all right. Because when it came down to it, he felt most at home when he was by her side.

The thought stung more than he liked, considering how much he valued his independence. And the idea alone was alternately daunting and draining, but Tōshirō was glad for it all the same. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, content in the knowledge that she'd still be there when he opened them again.

They had survived another war. How many did this make now? Tōshirō was too tired to count. But he let the thought drift away with a satisfied grin. There was no use dwelling over fights that had already passed. He needed to face the future, particularly the one that he had with the woman sound asleep before him.

Drained by the short walk to her room, Tōshirō leaned forward so that his head knocked against her shoulder. Rukia didn't even move, so he took that as a sign that she'd be asleep for a while. He looked forward to the moment when he could see her face brighten once more at the sight of him.

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_A/N: Please review._


	8. Trust

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Trust**_

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Her relationship with Kurosaki didn't bother him. Not exactly.

Everyone thought they'd end up together. Hell, even he had thought it at one point. It was only natural. They both made each other the soul reapers that they were today—and the sheer strength of their relationship managed to transform all of Soul Society into something better. Tōshirō didn't doubt that had they never crossed paths, then they'd all be dead right now. Had Kuchiki Rukia and Kurosaki Ichigo never become bound together by abstract ribbons of red that were, despite everything, still stronger than even his own connection to her, then he would've never even had the chance to claim her as his in the first place… romantically speaking anyway.

Kurosaki was related to his former Captain. If the substitute had never done anything for Soul Society, then for that reason alone, he would've had—if not his respect—his acknowledgement. But Kurosaki had gone above and beyond the call of duty for a soul reaper, no, for a _human_, that Tōshirō felt every bit like the teenager that he had once looked like for being envious of the boy.

It stung a little to know that a human was stronger than him. He got over it only because Kurosaki was stronger than almost anyone else he'd ever known. What Tōshirō couldn't get over were the occasional doubts that lingered in the far reaches of his mind. They visited him at the most inconvenient times, haunting him in the night when Rukia wasn't in his arms. They poked so much at his biggest insecurities that he had once considered banging his head against a wall just so he could focus on something else.

He didn't do it of course. He wasn't that far gone. Not yet.

Still, Tōshirō couldn't deny that there were some nights that he wondered if she ever considered the substitute soul reaper to be more than a friend; more than the man that oh, so _graciously _gave her his closet and possibly the most peaceful time throughout her long life as a soul reaper.

Tōshirō was curious—had always been. He'd asked her that question once upon a time, and the brief, albeit weighty conversation still throbbed as much as it did then.

"Have you ever considered Lieutenant Hinamori that way?" was her response.

Tōshirō's mouth had drawn together in a thin line. He didn't bother answering because somehow, he believed that she knew the answer to that already.

"Sorry. That was uncalled for," Rukia went on with a distant look in her eye, before answering, "Yes, I did consider it. Once."

There were no embellishments in her words. No hasty excuses or cold turn of her head to shut him out. In a way, it was so honest and so _pensive _that he wished she'd lied to him. Or at the very least attempted to justify why she decided against pursuing anything more with the substitute.

Tōshirō had wanted to ask her _why, _but in the end, he didn't have to. He knew why. Being with Kurosaki would end in disaster for all parties involved. On top of Byakuya never allowing it, Rukia would have to watch the man she loved grow old and die before her eyes.

He knew that, for her, a life with Kurosaki would be a short, but fulfilling one. Tōshirō doubted that the innumerable years she'd need to endure following Kurosaki's passing could ever be considered living. It would be bad enough when it happened, but it would be a thousand times worse should they have been married. And, at the end of the day, he knew that the looming anticipation of Kurosaki's death would break her in ways that she would never know, especially if she had no one else to rely on for support; no one else to wrap her arms around and cry unabashedly in the arms of. Abarai might've been an option once, but that was a long time ago. Long before Tōshirō had come along.

Rukia's heart might've been surrounded by strong walls that even he struggled to penetrate at times, but the core was still soft. She needed someone that could weather the rest of her life with her; not a human that would leave her before she even made it halfway through. Yet, even this heavily thought out revelation into his lovely wife's character wasn't enough for Tōshirō to stop tightening his arm around her waist or watch her just a little more closely whenever Kurosaki was near.

She wouldn't leave him. He knew that for a fact. Their experiences over the decades aside, when it came down to it, their personalities meshed well together. When Rukia was serious, she matched him in every way that mattered. When she wasn't, her gleaming, often silly nature contrasted with his own perpetual solemnity in a way that lightened him.

The foundation of their relationship was strong enough to withstand whatever this twisted world had to throw at them. If nothing else, that, Tōshirō wholeheartedly believed. But he still had an abundance of jealous reflexes that he couldn't seem to break.

It was in the nature of dragons to watch over and protect their treasures. Rukia was his greatest.

Tōshirō entered their shared home to find a worrying number of their friends passed out on the living room floor. Kurosaki and Rukia, however, sat across from each other around their dining table. They reminisced about shared times from way back when Rukia had first transferred her powers to him. Something about ice-skating? The memory sounded way too cute for his liking.

Tōshirō leaned against the wall, observing them. He hated how even their spirit energy felt the same.

Kurosaki was the first to notice him.

"Yo, Tōshirō!" he waved. "How long have you been there?"

"That's Captain Hitsugaya to you," he said mechanically. "I just got he—"

The words bent in his throat as soon as Rukia shifted to face him. Surprise, then utter elation crossed her features. Never before had his presence ever made someone so happy, but it did for her. The slight smile that lit up her face then was bright enough to make the entire room seem more welcoming. Kurosaki noticed the look in her eyes and grinned widely in return. The joy of his _friend_ was clearly important to him.

"You're home early," Rukia said, pleased. "I was hoping to kick these fools out before you came."

"Hey!" Kurosaki shouted. "How many times have I let you crash at my place?"

"I wanted to see you," Tōshirō said, ignoring the orange-haired soul reaper that raised an eyebrow at the line.

Rukia turned away from him with enough force to send her hair flying outward in a mad spiral. "_W—W_hat are you saying? There are people here!"

"You're smoother than you look, Tōshirō." Ichigo snickered.

He didn't even bother correcting the substitute this time. Rukia's pleased half-smile was more than enough to clear the dusty corners of his mind, where his petty jealousy hid like a knife in the dark. Envy was beneath him. He was a soul reaper. A captain. A _dragon_.

Tōshirō only needed to focus on caring for what was his. Any fools that had the audacity to draw near, he'd trust her to put in their place.

It took two to build after all.

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_A/N: Please review._


	9. Dawning

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Dawning**_

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Tōshirō hauled her up, then inched backwards until they both fell onto the bed in a mess of breathless pants and intertwined limbs. Rukia sighed into his mouth. He pulled her closer in response. Tōshirō swallowed every noise she made, memorized every drag of her fingers across his skin. He stored up the moments like a man turning for one last glimpse at a place he once called home.

When she pulled away to breathe, he chased her, appalled by the immensity of his own desire. He could bear it, he thought, if the world twisted in on itself and shrunk to only this. Because Tōshirō knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he'd be perfectly content to live the rest of his life in the spaces between every indulgent, measured breath exchanged between their lips.

Every overwhelming outcry of emotion, he drank in with open ears and tender eyes. His lips didn't languidly trace, they eagerly explored every curve of her body. Tōshirō pressed his fingers to the spots where she was most sensitive, hoping to make her say his name in that breathy, mysterious voice of hers. Once she did, he couldn't help the swell of emotion that rocked his core.

"Tōshirō…"

It was at that exact moment, between waiting for her to say his name again and impatiently leaning down to kiss her, that he felt it. Stark red ribbons connecting them. Shining, coiled links of abstract velvet and blood that bound him to her in something deeper than either of them knew. Tōshirō pulled away just long enough to take in her half-lidded gaze and red cheeks. His own face burned brilliantly at the sight. He felt the heat spread all the way to his ears, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. This was no time to be embarrassed by the openly affectionate look in her eyes.

Rukia was an enigma; a lively, yet mysterious woman that held his attention in ways that no other before her had. Tōshirō basked in the sheer brightness of her presence. It encompassed him, ridding him of the darkest, ugliest doubts about their relationship that he carried in the back of his mind; in the ugliest layers of his soul. One look from her made the scarred thing in his ribs that others liked to call a heart flutter like the wings of a baby bird still learning how to fly.

_Is it the same for her? _Tōshirō wondered, although he didn't bother placing his hand on her chest to find out.

There were times when he considered the possibility of entering her inner world, so that he could see for himself what kind of place it was. No, it was more accurate to say that he wanted tangible proof that something significant in there belonged to him, and him alone… even when he knew that was unlikely. Her soul was reserved for the wild, irrational future—possibly also Chappy. Deep down, Tōshirō knew that only a tiny, insignificant fraction was actually his to claim. He'd always been possessive, but it was strange how even the thought of a small piece of her being wholly captivated by him managed to content him.

_That can't be good, _he thought.

Suddenly, Rukia's thumb was on the space between his brows. She smoothed out the wrinkle that had formed there while he was thinking, before taking his hand in her own and squeezing his tanned digits lovingly enough to tether him back to the moment.

"Focus on me," she said.

"You shouldn't order a Captain," he shot back. All wit and smug smiles. The words were said more out of instinct than any semblance of annoyance. There was no way he could be annoyed with her now.

Rukia laughed and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand, right over an insignificant scar that he had there.

Tōshirō watched her do so through half-lidded eyes. There was something charming about the way she did that. Like she loved even that rough, calloused part of him. Whether together or apart, Tōshirō always felt like he needed more of her, and right then, he knew exactly why.

Rukia was so utterly endearing when she wanted to be. He didn't think she knew this, but her eyes lit up each time she caught a glimpse of him. His presence had never given someone such an intense amount of joy that their entire form emanated happiness, but it did with her.

Tōshirō met her eyes. They were so expressive when she wasn't on guard.

He was lost the second he looked at her.

_This isn't enough, _he thought, not entirely unafraid for what their future held, _it won't ever be._

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_A/N: This chapter was repurposed from a separate collection I have for One Piece titled, Waypoint. I wanted to see how it would work with this pair, and it turned out surprisingly good. Thanks for reading!_

_Please review._


	10. Desperation

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Desperation**_

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Rukia gritted her teeth.

She was used to the sight of blood, but with the adrenaline having drained away and her exhaustion finally catching on, she couldn't help but stare at it all. It shimmered even in the dark, blending with trails of ice and fire lit upon fresh bodies that were still pink from life. It wasn't beautiful. It wasn't lovely or sad or melancholic.

It was just red.

The wound on her side blossomed with previously unfelt pain. It was inflicted some time ago. Still, she felt like it wasn't real. Like she was simply looking at things through the eyes of another. For an insane instant, she thought that maybe the body she was walking in wasn't hers. That the four familiar faces that suddenly came to aid their unit were nothing more than illusions fabricated by her hopeful imagination… because she could still hear their screams. She could still see the glow of the enemies' blasts with each of her movements, burning as bright as her sword.

Had someone placed her under a spell? A merciful illusion?

_No, _Rukia thought. There was too much blood for this to be anything but reality. So much glossy red in one place. Like gory confetti exploding, painting the sky, the grass, and—

She was going to be sick.

Rukia tasted bile. Its pungent flavor overtook the spicy tang of copper and iron. Her hands moved of their own accord, finding her stomach and her throat, already knowing what to do. Her body instinctively forced her to swallow down her own petty disgust. This wasn't the time to fall into a trance. There were still Hollows that needed to be dealt with around her. Although she could hardly distinguish friend from foe now.

_Get ahold of yourself. You can't do this. Not here, not now, _she told herself, hating when Sode no Shirayuki spoke back. _Then when, Rukia-sama?_

Rukia struggled to breathe.

Distantly, she registered someone calling her name. The voice cut through the ringing in her ears. It was too deep to belong to a boy, but it was also panicked enough for her to be fooled. It was such a familiar voice. There was a prideful cadence to it that echoed inside of her head. The voice reminded her of winter's whispering chill; of the threatening rumble of power before the onset of a mighty blizzard.

She knew that voice. She liked it. Liked the sound of her name in it even more.

… But then the voice stopped its calls.

Rukia smiled. Because it wasn't an abrupt halt, but one of relieved silence. The voice had found her—and she was tired. The wound on her side bled through her clothes long ago, and the relief in that voice drew away the last vestiges of energy she had keeping her upright.

It reminded her of peace.

Rukia dipped unwillingly forward, landing straight into a puddle of red that felt like warmth and smelt like fear. She was grateful when darkness finally greeted her.

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The events that followed were a blur. Even to Tōshirō.

He remembered seeing Rukia fall forward, the sensation of his voice catching in his throat, and his feet pulling him after her. The rest of the world ceased to exist as soon as he watched her hit the ground. It was impossible to ignore the terror that surged through him then, so quick and so foreign that something deep inside of him shattered.

Tōshirō bobbed forward as he ran, bent at the waist like a mast cracked by a sudden storm. His chest heaved from how swiftly his breaths left him. Tōshirō's eyes clenched shut, his jaw trembled from sheer emotion, and then, without warning, he was on his knees before her. His grip on his composure long gone. He couldn't command his body. Not in the face of all that blood. There was so much. So, so much. It couldn't all be hers.

It just... _couldn't_.

His eyes burned. His chest felt gutted. Breathing fucking hurt_. _

This was too much. Anymore, and he'd tear apart.

Tōshirō needed someone from the Fourth Division. He wasn't adept enough with healing Kidō to use it on her. This job was too delicate for him. He'd kill her, before he cured her.

_Where in the three worlds are they when I need them?_

Tōshirō vaguely recalled checking his pockets for anything that might be of use. All he found were coins and errant pieces of string. He checked them a second time, more out of a need to move, than hope. When he only unearthed more coins, he looked around him for either a vial or a flask. He knew that Captain Kurotsuchi had given most of the lower-ranked soul reapers in her unit a strange tonic for emergencies hours before they departed. Tōshirō would confidently bet his annual salary that whatever brew Kurotsuchi made had more than one killer side effect, but Captain Unohana had quietly assured him that she'd nullified whatever toxin the mad scientist had put in them, so only their exquisite healing properties remained. He just hoped Unohana didn't lie.

His eyes swept the area. It was hard to find anything amidst the string of dead bodies.

_There must be something, _he thought, panic rising. Desperation was his own personal brand of hell. Very old territory. He needed to get a grip. _With this many people, there must still be one…_

_Beside you__**, **_Hyōrinmaru said.

Turning, Tōshirō searched frantically until he found a small vial peeking out from under a dead soul reaper's robe.

Scrambling for it, Tōshirō whispered an unintelligible string of gratitude to the dead man, before falling back on his knees next to Rukia. He covered her wound with his hand. The warmth of her blood urged him to move faster, even as he uncorked the vial of—he didn't know. But if he was lucky, it might slow the bleeding. Tōshirō could only hope that she wasn't allergic to any of the ingredients. Giving it to her would be a big gamble, but it was infinitely more precious than whatever else he had now.

So, for the moment, it had to suffice.

_Bless plants, oils, bugs, or whatever else was used to create this. If this helps her, then I swear to the Soul King that I'll never intentionally crush any flowers, shrubs, or insects ever again._

Tōshirō made quick work of the cap, then harshly forced her mouth open in haste. To his relief, Rukia awoke. She panicked in his arms. Her limbs flailed wildly against him in protest.

Hyōrinmaru spoke again, but he didn't hear. Tōshirō was lost to the look of delirious terror in Rukia's gaze. He didn't know how much time passed between him trying to calm her and waiting to be recognized, but eventually, he managed to catch her eye. It was only when he tilted his chin up, unyielding, that she finally relaxed against his ministrations, fully aware of who he was.

Tōshirō didn't speak, only watched as Rukia's eyes slipped shut. He pressed the vial to her lips. She downed everything he had to offer. Trust terrifying in its totality.

The effect of the tonic was immediate. He felt warmth return to her from where he held her and though her breaths came out slower than he liked, they were also steadier and firmer than the minute before.

Words spilled from him; a torrent of half-whispers and assurances that he hoped she could hear. But despite his clumsy tongue, he was certain that she'd know what it was he meant to say. It was plain for all to see when his fingers began combing through her hair; when his entire being shuddered in her presence; when he trembled each time he called her name—

Concern. Fear. Relief.

_Love_.

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_A/N: Please review._


	11. Act I: Public Display

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Act I: Public Display**_

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Rukia was part of the entertainment.

She had told him that she would be; that she had been scheduled to perform some centuries old dance for the crowd of curious onlooker from various noble houses and the thirteen divisions at the behest of the Kuchiki family. Rukia had been a bizarre mix of determined, terrified, and jittery over the last few weeks. But in that moment, as two gold-tapered sliding doors decorated with whorled clouds were drawn to the side by Kuchiki servants to reveal her clad in rich purple with a fan as dark as night, she only looked ready.

Even as far as he was, Tōshirō could tell that the tailoring of her kimono was nothing to scoff at. It was embellished with mild orange outlines in the form of leaves, which signified the season. The obi was a dark black to match both her fan and the deepness of the rest of the outfit. It must've taken months to make. If she told him that the price of it was five times his salary, then he'd believe her—_easily_. She was a Kuchiki after all.

With a barely visible shake of her wrist, a second fan opened in her free hand. Lighter, this one. It was whiter than his hair. There was an artful streak of red across it. The brush stroke was so stark and so purposeful that it made him think of a gory blade flickering in a field of white, barely shimmering. The kind that would leave nothing more than a marred line of blood on an edgeless expanse of snow.

Drums beat. Bells rattled.

A wave of anticipation quieted the crowd.

And then suddenly, she was moving.

From the corner of his eye, Tōshirō noted that even the more rowdy members of the other divisions had stopped drinking. Although he pegged that on their fear of Kuchiki Byakuya, and the tacit promise of death should they do anything to ruin her performance. He'd hardly seen Rukia since she started practicing well over three weeks ago. Tōshirō already paid closer attention whenever she was near, but the sight of her then held his gaze in a way that made him slightly fearful for his sanity.

Tōshirō was enraptured. He followed all of it—every arc of her hand, each elegant glide of her fan, the way her legs bent in a mad twirl.

The dance was sophisticated, sorrowful, and somehow able to convey every single bit of yearning for an unreachable lover that he felt in that moment.

And before he knew it, it was over.

Rukia didn't bow when she finished. The only indication that she had finished her dance was a purposely deep exhale, similar to a shattered sigh. Rukia turned her head ever so slightly to the side with a distant look in her eyes—the final part of her performance—before the sliding doors slammed shut with a finality that made his ears ring.

There was a moment of speechless quiet as the act sunk in.

Tōshirō found Ukitake and Kyōraku smiling a distance away from him. The pair raised their glasses at the show. That was all Tōshirō managed to see, before cheers and a loud round of applause fought for his attention. The crowd went as wild as decorum allowed. They went even wilder when Kuchiki servants stepped out from a nearby building to serve them all drinks. A string quartet began playing soothing music to match the mood of twilight, and suddenly, the event was in full swing.

Tōshirō waited for Rukia to emerge from the back rooms. Now that the crowd had a nigh endless supply of fine alcohol to loosen their tongues, he noted how much more animated they seemed while discussing her performance. He caught everything from flattering words of praise to galling phrases of indecency about wanting to bed her that had him tapping the offenders on the shoulder in a single, wordless warning that they gulped at.

He was annoyed and plenty bitter about how they publicly—_disgustingly—_expressed how much they wanted her. He was even a little annoyed at himself when he realized how a few thoughtless sentences managed to rile him up in ways that not even his greatest enemies could manage. But, before any other senseless emotion that their comments caused, Tōshirō retained the feeling of being proud of her. The fact that that was what won over everything, made him firmly believe that one of these days Rukia was going to be the death of him. He was just glad that Matsumoto wasn't around because she really didn't need any more ammunition. She teased him enough about their soon-to-be-announced engagement as it was.

It took a bit longer than he expected, but Rukia eventually made her appearance.

Guided by her brother, she flitted her way through the crowds, speaking to young, strong-willed nobles that were accompanied by more important-looking men that offered her wise words of advice. Tōshirō looked down at himself—at the sharp olive robes and darker haori—then up at her proud figure gracefully maneuvering through several conversations.

It wasn't the first time in his life that he'd felt shabby, and he doubted it would be the last. But he never wanted to feel that way in front of her. Would she think the same when she finally saw him?

Her gaze periodically flickered to all of the quiet corners that the throngs of soul reapers seemed to avoid for reasons beyond his knowledge. Tōshirō wondered if perhaps she was searching for him.

He didn't go to her immediately, already knowing enough about these functions to realize that taking her away as soon as she stepped out would be inappropriate. Instead, he waited until she and her brother were finally left alone. The Kuchiki siblings exchanged a quiet word, and he waited for both of their lips to stop moving, before making his approach.

"Rukia," he called, as much to get her attention as to feel the name in his mouth.

She turned, violet eyes scanning the masses before they zeroed in on him with such intensity that he found himself rooted to the spot. Rukia called out his name in response, though she didn't move to meet him. First, she turned to look up at her brother, who pinned Tōshirō with an unreadable stare. It took the older Kuchiki a minute, but eventually, he closed his eyes and nodded for Rukia to go.

Her gait was agile and deliberate, clearly used to moving in similar outfits.

Tōshirō shed his green haori as soon as she neared. He placed it over her shoulders and adjusted it over her slender frame so that it wouldn't fall. It provided a nice contrast to the richness of her kimono, serving the dual purpose of warmth and the implicit assertion that she had someone to whom she belonged.

He didn't talk about the performance, and she didn't prompt him for an opinion. The raw expression he donned conveyed more than his words ever could.

Behind her, Byakuya walked away, trusting him to watch over her.

"I was looking for you," she said.

Tōshirō grabbed her hand as firmly as the tender emotions flooding his veins allowed. He drew her a step forward, so he could press his lips to her ear.

"I'm here now."

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_A/N: Please review._


	12. Bonds

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Bonds**_

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Tōshirō had never told Rukia this, but he caught a glimpse of her during her long walk to that pure white tower.

It was before everything_. _By that, he meant before the dead bodies that he found in Central 46. Before the shit-fest that was Ichimaru Gin's betrayal, and the effect that it had on his Lieutenant. Before his childhood friend had realized that the man she so adored didn't quite have a heart.

The Palace of Penitence was a desolate place. Tōshirō hadn't felt sorry for her then. He wasn't kind enough to sympathize with a fool that desperately, _willingly_ broke one of Soul Society's most basic laws. To him, it was only right that Rukia kept her head bowed every step of the way. That no words of comfort reached her ears and no reassuring hand settled on her shoulder as she stood before that glaring tower with heights impossible to judge amidst the gray sky. Even without a properly awoken sun, it shined silver-white. Striking and tragic all at once.

His recollections were vague. Nothing more than ripples that had grown even more distorted over the years. As if to compensate, his mind filled in the blanks with details that it believed to be natural. Like how narrow she looked underneath her white robe or how her shoulders dropped feebly with every step she took. Tōshirō didn't trust those specifics though; he wasn't that accepting. Not even when the image had come from his own mind.

The only aspect of that memory that Tōshirō placed any ounce of belief in was the one feature of hers that he never failed to recall in extraordinarily vivid detail—her eyes.

That day, all of the light had burned away from them, leaving only a starless sea of violet. Each orb was dense with emptiness and an echo of pain. There was no regret there though, and that was what truly surprised him. Rukia had been prepared to die for what she believed in. Her stubbornness rivalled his own. And even though she had been a _fool_, she was one that he could nevertheless respect.

Respect was the least her unwavering conviction demanded from him, as well as any of those that she crossed paths with in life. Even on her way to the execution ground, Rukia didn't rue any of the actions that she had taken on that fateful night with Kurosaki Ichigo.

Every soul had a price.

Tōshirō struggled with the knowledge that hers was the well-being of a single human boy. Yet, he loved her for that, too. If only because she stood by her convictions.

Rukia would die for the substitute. A part of him despised how he couldn't begrudge her for it. Because he knew that Kurosaki would do the same for her. He had proven it when he ran with all of his might to reach her before she could be executed, tearing apart everyone and everything in his path as if _he _might die if he didn't. Kurosaki possessed the exact same thing that he respected so highly in Rukia. It would be unfair of him to not acknowledge that much.

All of Soul Society had witnessed the strength of their bond over and over and _over _again.

At the end of that ordeal, Kurosaki—not her captain, not her childhood friend, not even her brother—was the one to return light to the cold chips of acceptance and death that her eyes had become… even if it was kind of his fault to begin with.

Tōshirō didn't regret his initial cold sentiments when he found Rukia walking towards that tower for the simple reason that, save for what he'd read in reports, he hadn't known anything else about her. They weren't friends. They weren't even acquaintances. She was just another faceless shadow cloaked in black. Although every now and again, Tōshirō found himself wondering what he would do should she ever be placed in a similar position. Would he look on with frosty indifference should he ever see such resignation cross her face now?

_Of course I wouldn't, _he thought, firm and unbending as steel.

Even if he hadn't helped—or known—her throughout some of the most trying periods in her life, he could be there to support her throughout the ones to come. A relationship had, after all, sprouted between them since. And even though it was still new, nothing more than a sapling in their cupped hands that needed to be tended to, it wouldn't be long before it blossomed.

They had the chance to grow together now.

The present mattered just as much as the past, and as he watched her eyes sparkle with vigor and joy and the unmistakable twinkle of _life, _Tōshirō couldn't help it when his own softened in response. He made a promise to himself then that he would help her make new memories to replace all of the ones that hurt. It wouldn't be entirely for her. A heart could only hold so many after all. Tōshirō would rather hold ones of her than of a red-stained battlefield.

Rukia rushed to greet him. She walked expertly in what he was sure was a seven-layered kimono gifted to her by her dear brother for some over-the-top clan event that Tōshirō had promised to attend.

"Tōshirō!" she called, enthusiasm tinged her cheeks red. Whatever was happening at her house must've been one hell of an affair if she was that excited.

He raised an eyebrow, trying to maintain some semblance of calm now that the full weight of her gaze was on him. "You look pleased."

"_O—O_f course I am," Rukia faltered once she realized just how she had acted. She tried and failed to hide the sheer amount of joy threatening to overcome her. "Byakuya-nii-sama asked me to dance later toni_g_—_w_hat's wrong?"

She reached up to smooth the wrinkle that had abruptly formed between his brows with her thumb, but it wouldn't budge.

_What's wrong is that I still haven't gotten over the last time you danced in front of a crowd of gaping men, _he thought scathingly, but what came out instead was, "Can you promise to only look at me while you do?"

Her cheeks blazed.

Tōshirō smirked in triumph.

_Perhaps I can embarrass her enough into refusing even Kuchiki Byakuya._

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_A/N: Please review._


	13. Respite

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Respite**_

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Sometimes he really envied Rukia's power.

Tōshirō sat before the open sliding doors of his room, where he had set up a low table so he could work without having to suffer through the muggy heat-filled air that currently dominated his office. He was definitely breaking some informal rule by doing paperwork by the entrance of his quarters, but at that moment, he really didn't give a damn.

He was already functioning at quarter-capacity because of the sweltering heat. He didn't need the added stress of noisy greenhorns running past his office doors or the lack of fresh air coming in from the scant few windows his office had.

Who in the world had decided that only two _tiny _windows were enough for an office that large? Tōshirō sincerely wanted to know, so he knew exactly who to curse each time this awful season came rearing its ugly head.

Summers in Soul Society were his personal hell. The long years that he'd endured them didn't acclimate him like his Granny had assured him it would back when he barely reached her hip. Actually, growing older—and consequently, stronger—seemed to make it worse because of Hyōrinmaru's development. Every year that passed made him consider more and more the pros and cons of just cocooning himself in a fortress of ice until the season passed.

_Pro: Comfort. No heat._

_Con: Mountains of paperwork upon his return. Chaos within his division. Missed captain meetings._

_Pro: Relief. No heat._

_Con: A storm of empty alcohol bottles in his office. Slacking subordinates. Inevitable boredom._

_Pro: __**No heat.**_

It would be worth it, he decided then, even though he knew he'd never follow through.

Tōshirō groaned at his own weakness. He placed the hastily finished report on top of his 'complete' pile with more force than necessary, before running his hands through his hair in irritation. He curved over the edge of the table, head resting between his elbows and face eventually meeting hard wood. Tōshirō felt like some brittle sail, cracked half-mast.

He was _dying. _He was sure of it.

Tōshirō had tried unleashing waves of his spirit energy, and while it did work for a time, he could never keep it up for long. It wasn't as if he was in danger of running dry. Rather, every ounce of his energy just drained from his body at the most miniscule amount of exertion.

Sure, he could put up a fight if the situation really called for it. He could also wipe the floor with every single person in his division if need be. But that was the problem—_there was no need_. There was no clawing desperation forcing him to do more than the bare minimum. Soul Society was serene enough to drive him insane.

The sorry excuse of a cooling unit that the Twelfth Division installed in his room stood no chance against what was possibly the balmiest summer he'd ever experienced—of course he claimed that every year. They really needed to do their damn jobs better because he couldn't live like this damn it!

Sweat beaded down his back. It took hours of training to make Tōshirō feel this way, yet the sun could do it so _easily _that he sneered in contempt_. _Before he could curse it for the crime of simply existing, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps. No urgency. No heaviness. It was casual enough to make him wonder who was strolling through his personal segment of the division.

It didn't take him long to find out.

"What are you doing?"

He looked up to find his fiancée standing there with her hair tied back. She donned a blue pinstriped yukata that looked decidedly too plain for the Kuchiki family princess. There was no way some silver-spooned noble gave that to her. Not even to use at home. Tōshirō would bet his salary that she'd picked it out herself… and unintentionally horrified an elder in the process.

Her alert eyes and overall put-togetherness contrasted sharply with his unusually dead demeanor. His hair was a sad mess, much flatter than he remembered it ever being. Even though he'd folded his sleeves up to his elbows and shed his captain's cloak a long time ago, it didn't help the way he was feeling. Nothing did.

"Working," Tōshirō eventually answered, not even bothering to lift his head from the table. He lost the ability to appear cool and unfazed before her the moment she found him there. Baking, despite the shade.

Rukia furrowed her brows, curiously watching him perspire in spite of his lack of activity. Then, like she got an idea, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

"Stay there," Rukia told him. "I'll be right back."

… And that was how he found himself still seated in the same spot that he had been in for the last few hours, but now cooling himself with an inadequate paper fan with one hand and shoveling spoonfuls of crushed ice with watermelon-flavored syrup into his mouth with the other.

Rukia leaned against his back, curled on her side while reading a comic book that she'd swiped from Kurosaki during her last excursion. She was a literal block of ice. Her body was currently at a temperature that he could only dream about. From the corner of his eye, Tōshirō saw cool vapor spread around them both, not only chilling him, but the rest of the room.

He pushed both fan and snow cone to the side once he was done, before shifting until he could snake his arm around her waist. Tōshirō unceremoniously dragged her, so that she was pressed up against his side. He bent, twisting over her, face tucked in the crook of her neck, where he pressed a kiss.

Tōshirō felt Rukia tremble. The sensation of his lips against her never failed to make her quiver.

"You're going to get us in trouble."

He didn't have to see her face to know that she was blushing.

"No one's going to come here."

"Really?" she drawled. "You didn't order anyone to bring you another stack at a specific time?"

Tōshirō stiffened. She had him there. "Well, I don't see you pulling away."

Her eyes drifted to his work. "Do you need help?"

"A chunk of it is in code."

"The Tenth has their own code?"

"Don't tell anyone." He yawned, oddly uncaring about the slip of information. Then again, they were getting married soon. "Matsumoto gives me enough grief as it is."

Her lips curved upward, before she relaxed fully in his arms. Rukia exhaled a breath of frosty air. It glided into the opening of his collar, echoing over his shoulder in a comfortable way that made him hold her closer.

Rukia was so _cold. _He loved it.

"You're not going to get any work done."

"I wouldn't have, regardless if you'd come," he admitted.

"Then…" Her hands traversed the long line of his back, until they cradled his face. Rukia lifted it, so that he was looking directly at her. "Do you want to take an ice bath?"

_What the hell is an ice bath?_ _Is that an actual thing? _he thought at the same time some traitorous part of him boomed, _that sounds heavenly._

The contradicting emotions must've flitted across his face because the roguish grin that she suddenly wore baffled him. Heat flooded his cheeks and spread all the way to his ears at the sight of her sparkling eyes. Strangely enough, the added hotness wasn't nearly as unwelcome as he thought it would be.

Rukia buzzed with excitement as she grabbed his hands and began tugging him to his private bathroom. Tōshirō knew from experience that he'd be gone the moment he stepped past the threshold, consumed entirely by those burning eyes and polar hands.

The final, lingering thought he had as she gently slid the door open was of that fledgling soul reaper he told to send him his work. Tōshirō really hoped that kid didn't snoop around when he didn't find him seated by his makeshift desk. He could only imagine all of the paperwork he'd need to file if he iced the kid for catching a glimpse.

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_A/N: Please review._


	14. Support

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Support**_

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If Tōshirō was being wholly honest with himself, he didn't understand Rukia's obsessive need to be so unreasonably flawless.

He'd said that once to Matsumoto, who told him with all of the bluntness that only a close friend of his could get away with that he wouldn't understand because whatever he tried came easily to him. But he didn't think she understood the pervasiveness of what he meant, and besides, even he wasn't good at _everything. _He couldn't dance to save his life for one. His emotions, more often than not, flicked to anger before they did anything else, and he—

He really didn't want to think about his mountain of faults that _weren't _work-related.

What Tōshirō had meant by his initial thought was that Rukia—unlike him and unlike so many others—tried to be perfect in everything she executed. From her soul reaper duties to her everyday responsibilities and skills. He both recognized and respected that kind of willpower, although he did find it a little odd whenever she continued practicing things that she was already fifty, possibly a hundred times better than almost everyone in Soul Society at. Her writing skills, for example. Not her eloquence, although that was good, too, but the actual act of putting brush to page and making words.

When she was really trying, Rukia's handwriting counted amongst the best he'd ever seen. Considering all of the reports he'd read in his lifetime, that was saying something.

There was a firm grace to it. Each stroke was distinct and bold, the characters tilted ever so slightly to the right. He'd seen her write hundreds of times before. The movement of her wrist was deliberate, full of practiced fluidity that let the brush glide across the page like sweat over his brow during training—it was natural; it was _right_. She knew exactly when she needed to stop to draw more ink, as if she'd become familiar with every kind of brush ever manufactured.

If she was writing something of particular import, Rukia always sat with her back straight and her shoulders painfully upright. Almost as if Kuchiki Byakuya had his reprimanding fingers on the back of her neck, ready to pinch her at even the slightest of mistakes. But she rarely made mistakes. When she did, it was usually through the fault of another; an outside distraction that made her frown at her lost concentration and ruined parchment. Like loose papers were some priceless commodity.

Rather than her writing, Tōshirō thought that it was her drawing skills that could use a little—okay, a _lot—_of work, but whose couldn't? And he sure as hell wasn't going to tell her that if she wanted to improve, then she really needed to start drawing something other than bunnies.

He was cold, but even he didn't have the heart for that.

So, when he went to visit her in the Kuchiki Manor and stumbled upon her once again practicing her writing by copying what looked to be a 500-page book, he decided to just ask. There was no use dwelling on it when she was there to tell him after all.

"I still practice so often because," Rukia looked from him to her desk, her brow furrowed as she tried to find the words, then, firmer, she said, "because I don't want to forget."

"You think you'll forget how to write?"

"How to write like this." She pointed to the paper on her desk.

Tōshirō had an imprecise understanding of what she meant by that.

Did she mean she'd revert to her previous unguided upbringing as an Inuzuri street urchin if she didn't practice every other week? Did she really think that she could so easily forget how to write like, well, a _Kuchiki_? There was so much to unearth in those scant few words, yet Tōshirō chose not to pry—not today.

He'd helped her through a few similar insecurities before, but poking so brazenly at such raw diffidence now would only make her retreat back into herself. Rukia had to unpack the words herself first. She had to do it without his prompting.

To his astonishment, she did.

"And," she muttered, low enough that if he hadn't been paying such close attention, then he would've missed it, "it still isn't good enough."

"It looks plenty good to me," Tōshirō refuted without missing a beat.

"No, it's too—" she cut herself off when he raised an eyebrow. Sighing, Rukia reached over to open a small cabinet to her right. She rummaged inside for a bit, before fishing out a worn, gray-toned book. "Look at this."

Tōshirō took it, before falling into a seat beside her on the floor before her desk.

It was a collection of reports. That much was obvious from the first page. A dry read, if he'd ever seen one. The papers weren't yellow, but the whiteness was beginning to dull. The ink had started to look blue in some parts, bleeding into sections that they shouldn't be in. But even then, the writing was nothing short of striking.

Now that he was truly paying attention to that and not the contents, he could see how every sentence strode on, line-after-line with poise. Although the words weren't meant to persuade, they still held a penetrative quality to them, courtesy of the writer. The strength behind each stroke; the seamless, flush proximity between every character mesmerized him.

Tōshirō didn't think writing could be this piercing. It was sharp like the tipped pillars that formed when he swung his blade. But what surprised him the most was how familiar it seemed. Yes, he'd seen this handwriting before. His brow furrowed, as he tried to draw out the memory from the dusty corners of his mind.

"This is…"

"It's Byakuya-nii-sama's," she revealed, and really, he should've known. "He gave it to me decades ago. Your expression changed when you saw it."

She sounded proud and inexplicably moved by the fact.

"It's a high standard, and I don't mean for our writing to be exactly the same, but I…" Rukia paused to breathe. "I at least want my penmanship to have that same effect."

Tōshirō stared at her.

Rukia was absurdly stubborn on a good day. Reluctant to concede. Unwilling to accept defeat. Strangely enough, he saw that clearer now than he ever would have in a battle to the death. Because that was a normal response for any soul reaper worth their salt. But this… this was something else entirely. It was something wholly her own.

He raised his hand to hold onto hers, but stopped midway, swiftly deciding against such a banal act of comfort in favor of a more tangible offer. Rukia rarely needed anyone to hold her hand, and she certainly didn't need him to do so now. What she needed was a different kind of anchor.

So, he grabbed one of her brushes. He didn't do much with it, only began writing random characters in the air that she instinctively tried to decipher.

Tōshirō met her eyes.

"Is there any way I can help?"

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_A/N: Please review._


	15. Act II: Ringside Exclusive

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Act II: Ringside Exclusive**_

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In the end, the iron-like control that he had over his heart—the one that Tōshirō was so proud of—had fractured into dust because of one thing and one thing only: his thoughtless persistence.

He'd decided to take a walk, not because he felt tired from the ridiculous piles of endless paperwork—although that would be a good reason, too—but because the office felt particularly stifling that day. It smelt like booze and stale sour candy. The room was packed with the tender sorrow of his Lieutenant that only ever made its appearance during her birthday. Tōshirō knew enough to leave her alone. He had to wait until the evening when she'd be in more of a mood to talk for a few hours about a certain silver-haired captain, before she'd go running off to some place in Rukongai that he didn't know.

So, he did what he usually did when he went on walks. That is, run a few errands, grab a bite to eat, and find Rukia. He checked the Thirteenth Division first. Forms for her new title as Captain were already being processed, so he thought he'd find her buried under similar loads of paperwork as him, but he was quickly informed that she had been relieved for the next three days to give her time to handle any pending business with her clan.

Tōshirō had taken one look at the sky, realized that barely forty minutes had passed—which definitely wasn't enough time for his office to completely air out—before deciding to go to the manor instead. Although the Kuchiki servants had grown used to his sudden visits, the head of the house wasn't around at the moment, and so they didn't let him in.

Now, Tōshirō wasn't a child. He didn't kick up a fuss about it.

… But he didn't give up either.

_If they won't let me in, then I'll go in on my own. I won't be long anyway._

The distance he could cover in a single flash step was immense, and although the Kuchiki estate was the definition of greatness, it had still only taken him one step to flicker into existence before her door.

He made to knock, only to find it cracked open. The sound of music shook him. He wasn't familiar with the tune. But it sounded _new, _so it must've been a record from the human world_. _There was a beat to it that made even him bob his head, if only for an instant.

Rukia's wing was always bizarrely empty, so Tōshirō heard it well in the silence. It spilled loud through the cleft between the two sliding doors. Like a storm blown through the eye of a needle. Her room must've been reinforced with something because it didn't come from anywhere else but that opening.

_What's she doing?_

Rukia hummed along with the song. Tōshirō heard movement in the form of footsteps. The lifting of a leg. The sharp turn of hips and arms. He peeked through the gap to catch a glimpse of her clothed back. She wasn't in uniform. Instead, she wore remnants from her time with Kurosaki. A knee-length skirt and a tank top that was thin enough to make him avert his eyes.

Sometimes, when luck deigned to grace him with a glance, he'd catch Rukia dancing. This was clearly one of those times. Tōshirō caught the barest hint of sweat beading down her back, so she must've been doing this for a while. Distantly, he noticed her uniform and captain's haori on the ground in a forgotten heap. He wondered if that was an unconscious sign of how she'd prefer living in the human world over Soul Society, but he tucked away that thought for another time. It wasn't worth his attention now.

_She hasn't even noticed me. I am concealing my power, but she should still be familiar enough with my aura to sense a flicker._

He supposed that was just a testament to how consumed she was.

Rather than announce his presence, he silently slid open the door and rested against it, watching her move to the beat. Seeing her dance was always a sight. It didn't matter what she was swaying to, although he did have a particular fondness for human music.

Traditional dances, although captivating in their own way, were firm. They called for a certain amount of rigidity. He believed that Rukia's cattish grace showed best when she could rapidly move her body in whatever way struck her. He didn't have to be a genius to realize that those nimble impulses were all her own. That kind of thing couldn't be learned—not even if the Kuchiki family was doing the teaching.

Tōshirō smirked in fondness over the entire situation. He liked it best when he was the only spectator, so this felt like a special treat.

Everything about Rukia was rimmed with the barest hint of hoarfrost. But when she was like this, lost to the mindless groove and thinking about nothing but the natural flow of her body, he felt something soft in all of that cold. A sincerity that bit through everything, even the deep roots buried in the darkest depths of him. It never failed to make his heart stutter forward. The traitorous thing.

Tōshirō watched as she spun, unintentionally facing him.

Then, as if to spite him, his heart beat harder in response.

He closed his eyes, already knowing what was about to happen. She'd stop, gape at him, and then attempt to cover her body.

"Tōshirō!" she called, then proceeded to do everything he'd just envisioned. He didn't have to open his eyes to confirm that. "How long have you been there?"

What did catch him off guard, however, was the sound of her voice. It was like a burst of white light that flooded his senses even through his shut eyelids. Tōshirō scrunched his eyelids tight for a moment, as if that would silence the echo of his name, before opening them again to find her nearby.

Quickly fading spots dotted his vision, but he could see her well enough. She stared up at him with wide, self-conscious eyes.

"Rukia," he called, before he could stop himself. Her name rolled smoothly off of his tongue like her skin whenever she writhed beneath him. "Why'd you stop?"

A sudden blush spread down to her chest. His eyes followed it. When his view was obstructed by her tank top, he flicked teal orbs back up. Her head was turned away, so thankfully she hadn't noticed.

"What do you mean why? _I—y_ou…"

The words bent in her throat.

Rukia threw her hands up in preference.

Before she could stomp away, he seized her wrist to draw her forward. Tōshirō secured her in his arms. Her cheek was pressed right against his chest, where he was sure that she could hear that scarred thing in his chest pounding as hard as a blacksmith's hammer to an unfinished sword. If she ever needed proof of exactly how he felt about her, then that was it.

Without even opening her mouth, Rukia somehow made him so…

He maneuvered them both forward, so that he was fully inside of her room. Tōshirō carelessly slid the door shut.

"Come on. One more time," he urged, even though he could barely look at her. His chest felt close to bursting. He was afraid that it actually might if he met her eyes now. "I didn't see all of it."

She was reluctant, but Tōshirō knew how to coax her.

The music continued late into the evening.

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_A/N: If you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of in love with the thought of Rukia dancing._

_Please review._


	16. 30 Themes

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**30 Themes**_

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**1\. Sharp**

No one ever told him that the rain could feel sharper than ice. As he looked up and felt the heated drops wash over him, draining away all of the blood on his frame from the subordinates that he had been a second too late to save, he wondered if this could also be considered a type of torment.

**2\. Consent**

To properly date her was to earn the approval of one of the most immovable boulders in Soul Society—Kuchiki Byakuya. Even the thought of asking was a trial. Hell, he felt antsy just sitting there.

"What are your intentions, Captain Hitsugaya?"

Tōshirō closed his eyes and breathed deeply, steeling himself. He was never one to back down from a challenge.

**3\. Anger**

A storm rose in her eyes whenever she was angry. Not those minute flashes of irritation that Kurosaki had a knack for provoking, but properly, _genuinely_ angry. The bottled, repressed blackness that was her fury drained every ounce of cheer from her being. It rolled off of her in waves like the sinister energy of a Hollow. But there was no mask to shield her expression from his view… and what an expression it was.

The first time Tōshirō saw it, he swore that it was dark enough to crack glass. It didn't take a genius like him to find out that no person—only time—had the capacity to return any semblance of joy to her.

It was only when _he_ had been the cause of such rage that he realized how much power there was in being able to aggravate her to such an extent. But there was shame in it, too. Tōshirō dreaded ever being looked at by Rukia like that again.

**4\. Dark**

The world around them diminished bit-by-bit as they kissed, slowly becoming light-headed from need. Tōshirō lifted her with ease, and she wrapped her legs around him in response. Rukia sighed into his mouth. For an instant, she was distracted by the flickering candle in the far corner of the room. She watched it bend and wane the shadows to its will, before her vision was abruptly obscured. Not by him, but by the darkness.

Tōshirō had used his powers to ice a clean trail from his feet to the candle's flaming tip.

"Don't look away," he said. "Tonight, your eyes should only be on me."

Her cheeks _burned_.

**5\. Weakness**

Rukia learned about his weakness for watermelon, while they were strolling down the streets of the district that he once called home. For some reason, he didn't think that the mean street vendor that once flicked pebbles at him would remember him after all these years.

The vendor was kinder now, possibly because of the Captain's cloak he wore, so Tōshirō let it go. He wasn't one to hold needless grudges. What surprised him, however, was how Rukia saw through the man's smiling façade. Tōshirō didn't know if that was a testament of her time growing up in Inuzuri or the Kuchiki household, but he was glad when she suggested they leave, despite the stall owner's protests.

**6\. Faith**

In the end, it wasn't his title, his friends, or even his stubbornness that tethered him; that brought him back from the brink every time he came close to just limply careening off the edge. It was this: the barest edge of a smile and the brilliant shine of determination as unyielding as steel locked within purple-toned eyes.

Rukia believed in his power as surely as dawn bathing light over the horizon.

He couldn't let her down.

**7\. Power**

Rukia called his name, beckoning his attention like slanted waters abruptly gushing down a cliff.

The strength that her voice had over him was outrageous.

**8\. Denial**

She was staying over at the substitute's house again.

Tōshirō wasn't jealous. He _wasn't_.

He just felt like he had barbed vines clenched around his heart.

**9\. Heart**

He was a reaper. How strange then, that his body should still function almost exactly like a human's. Tōshirō felt that clearly when Rukia kissed his cheek, his lips, his shoulder, and finally his chest—right over the stuttering organ that still beat, despite the fact that he was already dead.

"It's yours," he told her, before she could move away. She stiffened at the proclamation. "Don't let anyone convince you otherwise."

**10\. Envy**

Tōshirō would never tell Rukia this, but when she returned to the world of the living with the rest of their little band in tow in order to investigate the strange upsurge of Hollow signatures in Karakura Town, he died a little inside when she jumped onto that windowsill with her arms crossed and her eyes focused solely on Kurosaki.

He saw the moment the rest of the world drifted away for both of them. In that instant, nothing else had mattered. Nothing else ever would.

_I want that, _he thought, and knew that off to the side, Abarai felt the same.

**11.** **Infirmary**

Tōshirō had been heavily injured in the last fight. Only half-baked healing spells and subpar prayers held him together now. He currently sported enough bandages to make him look like a zombie from those human films that Matsumoto liked to show him sometimes when she was supposed to be working. But that didn't stop his concerned wife from drowning him in affection. Rukia drew closer and hugged him as tenderly as his wounds allowed like she wanted to hold him together herself.

**12\. Infatuation**

Hyōrinmaru had a crush… and _of course _it had to be on the most beautiful sword in Soul Society.

Soul King, save him.

**13\. Challenge**

Tōshirō had always been considered handsome. His chiseled features and icy demeanor had girls fawning over him even when he was still an unfortunately short teenager in high school. He'd never been interested in any of them—well, _most _of them_. _But a part of him did grow up thinking that he could have his pick of women. He'd never really had to try after all.

So, when he came across the most stunning woman he'd ever laid eyes upon while working one day, he had confidently struck up a conversation… only to realize that she was more interested in a fictional rabbit than she was about him.

Needless to say, his ego had been bruised.

But did that mean he was going to give up?

No way in hell.

**14\. Worry**

His control splintered into nothing at the sight of her.

"For the love o_f_—_why _did you step in front of me?" Tōshirō shouted, loud enough to split his own ears with the sound. "Had that blade sunken a little deeper, you would've died!"

Rukia didn't even acknowledge his words. She only sat up in bed, grimaced at the pain that lanced up her side, then outright groaned when the hurt echoed outward to shock the rest of her small body. Having seen that, Tōshirō, despite his fury, was by her side in an instant.

"Don't get up," he ordered.

"I'm injured," Rukia said, all stark violet eyes and righteousness, "not invalid."

He both loved and hated her stubbornness.

**15\. Need**

Tōshirō didn't need anyone else. He didn't _want _anyone else.

**16\. Stability**

"Don't go," she whispered, face buried in the crook of his neck. "Please. I need you here."

He didn't know if it was the plea or the sadness in her voice that did it, but both were surprising enough to stagger him. Put together like that, any thought of leaving that had formed in his mind shattered like glass in an instant. Tōshirō's resolve crumbled. Surely, the Tenth could survive a day or two without him. His wife was grieving the loss of a dear friend after all.

Tōshirō squeezed her small frame closer, binding her, if not to the reality that they lived in now, then to him. His chest ached over the fact that even if Rukia wasn't physically weeping, her soul was.

"I'm right here," he assured. "I'm not going anywhere."

Her ground and her anchor.

**17\. Love**

Wherever he went, Rukia was beside him. She'd call out, summoning his attention with nothing more than the sigh of his name. That alone had been his only constant since the start of this dreadful mission. And when Tōshirō turned, there she was again with a smile that made the prideful thing in his chest pulse like water frozen too quickly.

He had little experience with relationships. But he knew enough to realize that if he wasn't careful, whatever feelings were welling up in his chest would overflow and—

He'd drown in the sheer immensity.

**18\. Advice**

She came to him the night before his clash with Aizen's most powerful minions in the fake Karakura Town; the night before she would go to Hueco Mundo to help Kurosaki in his substandard rescue attempt. Twenty years later, the words she said then still gave him pause:

'_There's a tremendous difference between going into a battle prepared to die and going into one expecting to._'

**19\. Gratitude**

"It's not that I wanted to die," Rukia revealed to him one starry night on the rooftop of his division. She looked at the Palace of Penitence, visible, even in the gloomy distance. "It's just that I didn't particularly want to live either."

"That's clearly no longer the case."

The look she shot him then was so full of grief and gratitude that he didn't quite know what to make of it.

"Ichigo and Renji… they changed that."

Tōshirō didn't doubt it.

**20\. Simple**

"What don't you understand?"

"What don't _you _understand?" Rukia returned, incredulous. "Marriage is so much more complicated than that!"

"We've been together for over a decade already. At this point, it's nothing more than a promise." Tōshirō leaned closer. "A promise that you're going to live the rest of your life being loved by me."

**21\. Fight**

Fighting with her felt like coming home from war. No matter the outcome, at the end of the day, there were no winners.

**22\. Searching**

She'd been looking everywhere for him. After _six _hours of searching the Fourth Division and other crude clinics set up all over Soul Society, someone finally managed to point her in the right direction.

Rukia's gaze swept the rest of the room in a last minute, methodical rush. There was a golden-brown dresser beside her with a writing desk shoved up against it. Three dozen books were piled haphazardly on the floor, unopened and caked with enough dust to suggest their owner's passing. She wrinkled her nose at the sight. Rukia didn't care enough to read their titles. Instead, her eyes trailed to her feet, where a thick purple overcoat sat in a rumpled heap, either having fallen from her quick entrance or left there by a negligent hand and a tired mind. But seeing as how she didn't hear anything drop to the ground when she entered, she decided that it was the latter.

Only the beds were well-kempt. This room clearly wasn't occupied often. She did vaguely recall Matsumoto telling her that this was an unused space. For a moment, Rukia wondered when they had decided to transform it into a makeshift infirmary.

Rukia found a rust-colored curtain in the middle of the room, half-closed with noticeable tears along the sides. Behind it was a mussed bed, occupied by someone with light hair and turquoise eyes that stared unwaveringly at her.

"How long are you going to stand there?" he asked, caustic, while shielding his eyes from the dim glow of the light above his bedside. It wasn't exactly obtrusive, but she knew him well enough to know that he preferred sleeping in complete darkness. "Close that curtain, would you?"

Despite his grumpiness, Rukia sighed in relief. Palpable wasn't a strong enough word for what she felt. The emotion sat stone-cold in her chest, stifling her breath and knocking bruises on her rib cage.

She paused, before calling, "Tōshirō."

"I've been waiting for you."

**23\. Captivate**

Rukia hated the lukewarm compliments about her aptitude and perseverance from the nobles that didn't understand why she wanted to continue pursuing her profession as a soul reaper after being adopted by the Kuchiki family. She memorized their faces just for the sake of avoiding them at parties.

Tōshirō, however, enjoyed their interactions. Rukia rarely showed how she truly felt at such events, and her openly cold defiance towards them was nothing short of mesmerizing.

**24\. Unfit**

All it took was a single, vicious burst of intent from him and all of those sorry fools that had been vying for her hand were silenced. One even relieved himself. It was disgusting, but a nice ego boost nevertheless.

**25\. Hate**

Rukia eyed him. It was different from the looks she'd given him thus far. It was more… hesitant. She unnecessarily smoothed out imaginary wrinkles on her robes. Clenched tightly in her other hand was the scarf he'd given her years ago during a trip to the world of the living.

They were both inordinately angry the last time they saw each other; had both wielded words like whips to lash out at each other's rawest points. If he was being wholly honest—despite the days they spent apart since then—he was still somewhat angry at her.

But he'd be lying if he said that he also didn't want to make up and kiss her as soon as she walked through his office door.

A part of him really _hated _that.

**26\. Realization**

When Kuchiki Rukia, of all people, asked if he could watch her while she trained, Tōshirō didn't know what to think. Her sword was dangerous, she claimed, as if everyone else's wasn't. But she reckoned that a man as unaffected by the cold as him would be the perfect choice to watch over her to make sure that she didn't accidentally kill herself. He didn't know what she'd meant by that, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and eventually, he agreed.

One hour. Twice a week. That was all she asked for. She'd even reimburse him for his time.

Tōshirō figured that one session—to satisfy his curiosity, if nothing else—couldn't hurt. If he got bored, then he had every intention of telling her so, before leaving without preamble the very next day.

When their first session rolled around, he recalled one thing and one thing only: _she had a beautiful Bankai._

And yea, her smile wasn't bad either. Her eyes glittered like the ice he adored. She had an awful sense of humor that didn't at all match the brightness of her laugh.

It was only when he found himself dropping by the Thirteenth Division in a sad attempt to see her for a few more hours than their training called for that he realized that he was maybe, just _maybe_ a little in over his head about the entire situation.

**27\. Unspoken**

Rukia strode past him toward the door.

His eyes lit up in alarm. Tōshirō leapt from his position on the bed. He did his best to ignore the wave of nausea that assaulted him because of the heinous injuries he'd suffered at the hands of the Third Espada, and focused wholly on seizing her wrist. Rukia turned sharply at the contact. His grip was tight enough to bruise.

Realizing this, he tore his hand away, burned by the thought of accidentally hurting her. Tōshirō wobbled from the loss of purchase. Rukia reached out, gripping him by the elbows to steady him.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Tōshirō didn't answer.

Instead, he glared at his hand, trying to will it to obey. But his self-control had broken into pieces ages ago. He found his fingers clenched around her sleeve, wanting her to stay, despite the prideful denial resting on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be given voice.

They stood there for a long time, staring each other down. Both lost to the tension between them.

_Stay, _he shouted desperately in his mind.

**28\. Impressed**

Rukia had actually learned the slight nuances behind each of his grunts. She knew if they were dismissive or reluctantly interested, angry or mildly annoyed—and everything else in between. It wasn't that Tōshirō enjoyed communicating like some primitive soul, but he also couldn't deny how much easier it was to simply grunt when he couldn't be bothered.

He found out about her remembrance one night while engrossed in a book. Rukia spoke to him about one thing or another, and then kept responding correctly to each of his grunts and minor exhales like he'd been speaking actual words to her. It was almost as if she could hear every glancing thought that flitted through his mind. It was concerning to say the least. Terrifying, too, that someone should know him so well. But perhaps what was most worrying of all was how he didn't mind.

On the contrary, evidence of her paying such close attention to him made his chest swell with wild, unmanageable heat.

**29\. Reconcile**

They were both stubborn people, and when they disagreed, their arguments could swing from caustic banter to full-on shouting matches in a disturbingly short amount of time. Only words were ever thrown, but sometimes, words cut deeper than blades. And their tongues were both made of fine steel tinged with enough dry ice to ensure a lasting sting.

Their fights were never pretty affairs, but Tōshirō liked to think that the way they made up was.

At the end of the week—because sometimes it took a few days for their hearts to heal over—they'd crawl carefully, quietly back into bed with each other, seeking solace with every whispered apology against the other's lips.

**30\. Mine**

Rukia crushed herself to him, and he shuddered from the force.

Tōshirō shivered from the foreign touch of chapped lips against his own, but all coherent thought was lost as soon as she moved against him. Careful at first, despite her initial enthusiasm. The kiss was chaste, cautious, and so much gentler than he expected.

But then the moment passed, and when her shoulders eased and he mastered himself enough to return her soft press of lips, the rest of the world turned to dust. In that one instant of fervent desperation, passion and fire coiled together in his stomach. Heat overtook the frost that dribbled like an endless tonic into his veins.

Tōshirō matched everything she bared before him, then upped it tenfold. Rukia shrunk back in the face of his ardor. Startled, yet pleased. Ignorant to how simple it was for him to up the ante. He'd always been intense. It was only right that he'd put so much more into this. Besides, he'd wanted this too much to show restraint now.

She was finally his.

There would be no going back—for either of them.

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_A/N: 14 was my favorite. __If any of you are interested in my writing beyond fanfiction, then I have fantasy novels up for sale under the penname, Nicholas Rinth. _

_As always, please review._


	17. Homecoming

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Homecoming**_

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Tōshirō wasn't drunk.

He _wasn't._

That he could think that with such confidence only proved his point… right? He also had none of the telltale signs of drunkenness like vertigo or seeing triple during his walk home, so that affirmed the thought.

Even though Tōshirō didn't drink often, he never considered himself a lightweight. He might've been small, but he was still a captain. How could a captain not hold their liquor? It just didn't fit the image he had of captains—of himself—in his head. After that single glass that Matsumoto had none too graciously placed in front of him, however, he thought that maybe he needed to reassess his… capabilities.

He'd had drinks before. Hell, Tōshirō could down two, perhaps three large bottles of saké on his own and still retain his senses. But that rich green liquid that she'd set in front of him was clearly in a league of its own. Tōshirō didn't really remember the taste or the smell of it. All he recalled was this: it was _potent. _He realized that the moment his lips touched the glass and the scent assaulted his senses in full. It was like rat poison. He wouldn't be surprised if she told him it was. It definitely didn't look safe to consume. The human that invented it either had strange taste or a death wish. Possibly both.

Tōshirō distinctly recalled wrinkling his nose and cringing like a child at the mere scent of it. But even though he wasn't fully certain about ingesting the damn thing, he had downed it nevertheless.

He knew that he shouldn't have taken it; that humoring Matsumoto was more often than not bad—_ bad, bad_—news. But it was her birthday and she looked so inexplicably _lost _that he couldn't help but sit with her until she vented all of her pent-up grief and fell asleep on the office couch. Matsumoto didn't have a smile on her face when he left, but she looked peaceful enough that he didn't wake her. Besides, Tōshirō didn't have it in him to yell at her that night. Tomorrow morning would be fair game.

Especially with how much she was making him suffer now.

_What the hell did she give me? _he thought, curling over himself. His head met the cool, wooden surface of his living room desk. Tōshirō didn't feel the urge to throw up, so he considered that a win. But blessed souls above if he didn't have one hell of a stomach ache. His head was a little hotter than normal, too, which couldn't be good.

_All things considered, it could be worse… but it could be better, too. _His eyelids felt heavy, so he rubbed them in a futile attempt to clear the haze around his mind. _Shit, I feel like I'm about to pass out. You've got to be kidding me. How much alcohol was in that one glass? Tonight, I was supposed t—_

"Tōshirō?"

He lifted his head to find Rukia standing by the doorway. She registered the glazed look in his eye and the red on his cheeks instantly, he knew, because in the span of a breath, she was by his side.

The look on her face was so worried that Tōshirō couldn't help but smile crookedly in return. Belatedly realizing what he was doing, he schooled his face back to neutral. But it was hard to keep from grinning like an idiot when her brow abruptly furrowed in response to the minute changes in his expression. Sometimes, it felt good to be worried about.

He gently rubbed the space over his heart, trying to calm it like one might calm a stuttering child. To no avail.

"Are you okay?" Rukia asked, drawing nearer to place a cool hand on his forehead.

"I'm fine."

She didn't believe him because not a second later, her hand fell to his shoulder. Rukia pushed him to see if he would wobble. Tōshirō was proud to say that he sat firmly in place.

"See?" he went on. "I'm fine. Matsumoto just handed me a weird dr_i_—_concoction._"

"Concoction?" she repeated. The slight smile that suddenly stretched her lips reached her eyes, and he reveled at the sight. "I'm away for a week, and I come home to you drinking strange things. What happened while I was gone?"

Stomach ache momentarily forgotten, Tōshirō shifted to face her. He placed his elbow on the table, so he could cradle his chin in his hand. Rukia settled beside him.

He noticed that she looked a little worn out from her trip to the human world, but she was intent on listening to him—and it showed. Rukia mimicked his pose. She didn't use words. The look in her eyes was enough to prompt him to speak further.

Although Tōshirō still felt like there was a fuzzy cloud blanketed over his mind, it was a little easier to think now. She was a brilliant distraction. A good point to focus on. Like a storm lantern lit during a downpour. Bright, despite the haze._ This _was why he couldn't bring himself to yell at Matsumoto tonight. His Lieutenant was feeling lonely. He knew he'd feel the same should he and Rukia ever go through similar circumstances as she did with the former Third Division Captain.

Tōshirō closed his eyes and lightly shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts. They disappeared one-by-one. He even made a waving motion, as if to clear up the lingering cobwebs. By the time he opened his eyes again, Rukia was giving him an exasperated look that he smirked at.

"I'll let Matsumoto tell you all about it tomorrow," Tōshirō said eventually. His gaze drew to her ears, where a pair of dainty silver earrings dangled. They were definitely new. He brushed aside her hair to get a better look. "These suit you."

Tōshirō couldn't help but grin when she suddenly averted her eyes. Heat colored her cheeks. Rukia was surprisingly sheepish when she was complimented earnestly, _softly. _If he did it in a specific tone, sometimes the blush would spread even further. He found that out early in their relationship… along with how stubborn she could be.

"Stop dodging the question," she said, meeting his eyes again. There was more force behind her gaze now.

"I will—tomorrow. Once my head is clearer."

"Was the drink that strong?"

"Words can't do it justice," he said plainly. She cracked a small, amused smile at the solemn look on his face. "Tell me about what you've been up to. My stomach is grumbling. I could use the distraction."

Her eyes lit up for the briefest of moments, before they were hidden behind that cool mask of hers. That alone told him that she had a lot to say about her trip.

"Where should I start?"

"Where'd you get these earrings?"

"Well, I bought them from—"

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_A/N: Please review._


	18. Snippets

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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**_(Extending) Snippets_**

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**150 Words**

Kuchiki Byakuya was off his goddamn eggs if he thought that Hitsugaya Tōshirō—child genius and feared _Captain _of the Tenth Division—would back down from going after what he wanted because he didn't approve.

All Tōshirō had done this time was buy Rukia a treat from the human world that she'd been absolutely delighted by, and her brother had the audacity to glare at him, before proceeding to have her do a suddenly urgent errand.

He was so _obvious_ that Tōshirō couldn't help but grimace as she ran off to do her brother's bidding. Now, Tōshirō didn't want to go behind the man's back, but he damn well would if he kept this up. There was protective and then there was—whatever level _this _was.

"Is it just me," Tōshirō drawled, while turning to meet the man's steel gaze, "or have your glares gotten softer?"

Silence, before…

"Scatter, Senbonzakura."

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**250 Words**

Tōshirō didn't think stomping on a stuffed animal could ever bring him such joy.

He twisted his ankle right on top of the lion's head, relishing in the sound of muffled protests and cotton being pressed firmly against the substitute's hardwood floors. The Mod-Soul struggled futilely. His little limbs flailed in a way that made Tōshirō smirk in sudden, merciless delight, and before he knew it, he allowed a sliver of his spirit energy to seep out and scare the lion witless.

Beside him, Rukia and Kurosaki said their greetings, entirely uncaring for his aggressive treatment. Tōshirō left it to her to explain what they were doing there. It was only after a good five minutes of constantly shifting his weight on the lion's back to get the damn thing to shut up that he interrupted their conversation.

"Leash your mod next time we're here, Kurosaki," Tōshirō warned. "Or my hand might just slip and slice something."

Kurosaki rolled his eyes and waved aside the threat with hardhearted ease. "Go ahead. Maybe you can teach 'em some manners. Soul King knows how much _I've _tried."

"Hear that?" Tōshirō said, all the while stepping down with more pressure.

"You'll never break me, you… you… _dream stealer_!" Kon shouted with an abrupt burst of energy. He began flailing again in a vain attempt to get away from Tōshirō's relentless pressure. "Fantasy killer! Pipsqueak! Minty fresh toothpaste roll! Oversized iced juiceb—"

The pained scream that followed those insults even made Kurosaki wince.

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**300 Words**

"Are you ready?" Tōshirō asked.

Rukia gave him a look that was too much for him to bear. It was too full of—_everything_. Joy, excitement, wonder, fatigue, and an uncontainable delight that staggered him. So much honesty in that one look. More than words could convey.

She squeezed his hands to steady them, before taking two steps ahead. His ground and his anchor. She tethered him to her in ways that he still found difficult to put into words.

"Are you?" Rukia shot back.

Tōshirō only stared at her in response. Personally, he thought that her answer was far more important than his own. As long as she was there, as long as there was someone that he treasured enough to protect, he would _always _be ready. But Rukia didn't speak again, so he focused on her expression instead. Tōshirō examined every inch of her face. It was alight with the promise of the future. He could practically _feel_ her excitement. She brimmed with the sort of euphoria that only came from the realization that she had the wild open sky laid out before her feet.

After a moment, Rukia stretched out her hand. Strong and unwavering. She sought his gaze, waiting for him. Tōshirō didn't hesitate to grab ahold of her. He fully seized her hand in his own with a firm, reassuring squeeze. An anchor himself, perhaps.

Rukia smiled when he did. Tōshirō intertwined their fingers in response, mooring himself to her of his own volition. Together, they stepped away from the remnants left behind after another hard-fought war; one more victory to add to their every growing tally. She didn't release his hand, and he made no move to pull away.

All that mattered now, the only thing they wanted to matter, was this solitary instant.

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_A/N: Please review._


	19. 10 Themes

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**10 Themes**_

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**1\. Compliment**

The first compliment Rukia had ever given him concerned his eyes.

"They're grounding," she had said, while looking at anything but him. "Even when you're angry."

His eyes had been a private pride ever since.

**2\. Peace**

Tōshirō loved peace, but even he couldn't deny that it could be wearisome after a while. Days blended together into winding loops of nothing. There were some mornings when he'd wake and go to a cold kitchen with a hot pot of tea on the stove—_a new day, _he'd think.

Only to realize two minutes later that he was intolerably bored.

**3\. Alike**

The day Tōshirō stepped into his office with a green scarf wrapped around his neck, Matsumoto had grinned in mischievous delight.

"Captain!" she shouted, too loud for the still morning. "You look more like a Kuchiki each time I see you."

He shouted right back in an effort to hide the blush that had colored his cheeks.

**4\. Name**

The control that she had over him was disgraceful. Tōshirō knew it the moment Rukia first said his name. She whispered those three common syllables by his ear, and in that dying instant, she had made him feel as though everyone had been saying it wrong his entire life.

**5\. Nerve**

Hitsugaya Tōshirō was a man of many talents and skills.

Falling asleep quickly was not among them.

It was made worse by the fact that his overactive mind kept replaying the scene of Kuchiki Byakuya outright refusing his request to date his little sister. The audacity of that man to refuse him outright after he'd sat before him, man-to-man, with nothing but respect and genuine sincerity. He could've at least heard him out, but—

Tōshirō breathed to steady his spirit energy.

Soul King, if that man didn't loosen his overprotective hold on Rukia, then so help him, he'd do it himself. _Fuck _protocol.

He wasn't a noble.

**6\. Panic**

Tōshirō faltered at the sight of Rukia's small shoulders hunched over. She looked fragile in a way he'd never seen before.

"Rukia," he called, closing the space between them with an urgency that made his head spin. "What's wrong?"

**7\. Aftermath**

War had a way of leaving its mark on a person.

Whenever Tōshirō would enter a room, out of habit, he'd look over his shoulder for the glint of moonlight on steel. There were quite a few places for someone to hide in his home office. A folding screen in one corner, a tall desk covered with loose pages of paperwork that he needed to sign in another, and a narrow nook between a bookshelf and the wall. He spared each area a cursory glance.

In truth, he was prepared for enemies to rise forth from the flagstones and howl bursts of malicious energy at his ears. For trained men with swords too sharp for anything but killing to appear out of thin air, so they could nip at his skin with blades that even he'd have trouble evading—but none of that happened.

It was just his paranoia getting the better of him.

_Again._

**8\. Moving**

Momo was still there under all that anguish.

Odd, how after so many years of pulling back and forth with his childhood friend; of months on end without seeing each other for any decent amount of time; of trying to repair a relationship fractured by a man that he knew she still didn't fully hate after all he'd done, Tōshirō could still read her as easily as he could when he was a child.

When she offered him her congratulations regarding his engagement, he saw happiness limned with the slightest twinge of grief for a different today. For a future similar to the one they lived in now, but not quite so full of whorled clouds that made her wish so desperately for the pendulum to tick back the hours she spent—the hours she was _still _spending—lost.

Tōshirō didn't know how to fix her.

He had tried. Soul King knows he had tried.

But as the days pressed on and there was still no sign of recovery in her despondent eyes, he sometimes wondered if it was even his job to.

**9\. Coffee**

Tōshirō was a caffeine junkie, and he had absolutely no qualms about admitting it.

The first time Rukia had come to his office and brewed the dark beverage that she'd brought with her from the human world, he had hated it. It was bitter to an intolerable degree. His tune changed when he realized that with every sip he took, his mind somehow managed to spawn another thread of sanity for him to hang onto, while he dealt with Matsumoto's incessant complaints about work that she never bothered to do in the first place.

**10\. Daily Grind**

The pain of dealing with endless paperwork, stiff shoulders, and subordinates with too much ego and not enough skill—all of it—was so easily smoothed by this: his head in Rukia's lap, while she stroked his hair and occupied herself with a book.

Silent, save for the cicadas humming in the distance.

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_A/N: Please review._


	20. Beginning

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Beginning**_

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To Tōshirō, the scariest part about death wasn't the finality of it, but rather how instantaneous it could be. Stale, unsuspecting terror would be captured in the unfortunate soul's eyes until the final vestiges of their light floated up into Soul Society. He'd seen it happen time and time again during his long years as a Soul Reaper, and he knew he'd have to suffer through many similar sights in the centuries to come. He was prepared for it—as prepared as a growing man navigating a sea of gore could be anyway. What he wasn't prepared for was seeing such a similar sight in the eyes of someone that hadn't lost anyone… not really.

Death came in many shapes and forms. That lesson was hammered into him like nails in a coffin the day Kurosaki Ichigo lost his powers. Tōshirō caught a glimpse of Rukia as she stared at the stately double doors that led into her division. There was something about the listless look in her eyes that reminded him of Momo when Aizen betrayed them. It was so unnervingly similar that he felt like barbed vines had suddenly sprung up from whatever abyss they'd been hiding from to clench around his heart. Tōshirō actually had to rub that blighted spot on his chest to ease the pressure building there.

He watched from the distance as Rukia stood, one hand poised over the door in hesitance. Like she was wondering what kind of face she should show the people that cared for her. Like she was reliving a time in her life that wasn't filled with such—_silence _and stark, angry grief from something she should've been prepared for_._

_She doesn't have to put on a brave face, _Tōshirō thought. He might've looked like a child, but the number of years he had behind him made him anything but. _Lying and saying she's alright isn't necessary. I'm sure they're just happy she's still here._

On the contrary, they'd probably appreciate her shouting and moping like a wounded rabbit in a room. At least they'd know that she was sincerely processing her feelings. Losing someone precious—even if they weren't gone completely—_hurt. _

Tōshirō saw that pain etched clearly on her face.

For the briefest of instances, Rukia closed her eyes as if trying to shut away the immeasurable ache from her being. Tōshirō didn't know her well. He knew factual details that other Captains did, but on a personal level, they were acquaintances at best. But after seeing her brow furrow in hurt that he was all too familiar with, he closed the distance between them before he even realized what he was doing. All it took was one flash step. In the span of half a breath, he stood before her.

To her credit, she didn't stumble back. Her head merely snapped up. Cautious, even outside of the division she called home. Seconds of silence stretched between them. They blended into the eternity that they shared. It wasn't entirely uncomfortable. There was no hostility in her gaze. Nothing in her body language that indicated that he was an unwelcome presence.

"Captain Hitsugaya," she greeted, her voice was gravel-rough. There was a bareness in her tone that didn't sit well with him. "What are you doing here?"

"Kurosaki," Tōshirō began, and he had the misfortune of seeing her flinch. If this had come from her childhood friend, Abarai, he didn't think the name would sting her as much… but Abarai wasn't there now. "Did you see him?"

_Did you get to say goodbye? _were the unspoken words.

"Yes," she said, strained.

Tōshirō didn't ask if she was okay; he knew the answer to that already. He didn't ask her what she planned on doing and he didn't offer her advice for moving on. She wasn't a child, and he wasn't some all-knowing guide that could offer amazing advice during times like this anyway. He'd leave that to her brother, her captain, or other people closer to her that could offer a more profound perspective.

What Tōshirō was though was a _fellow soul reaper. _One whose dear friend had gone through a situation, well, not quite like this one, but similar nevertheless.

All soul reapers knew that no matter how hard or painful death was, there was a form of living that came after it. Reaching that _after _was the tricky part. Acceptance was an elusive thing. But Tōshirō had gone through this once before with Momo, and if that experience had taught him anything, it was this: words could heal just as much as they could cut. Bluntness and delicacy were not mutually exclusive. He could be straightforward without poking at wounds still too raw to touch.

He seized her wrist that still hovered over the gate of her division to keep her from leaving.

Tōshirō was surprised when Rukia's eyes hardened at the sudden touch. There was no shock about her, only a warning glance that told him that if he didn't remove his hand within the next five seconds, she'd do it himself.

Rukia was a force to be reckoned with, he'd give her that.

But all of her resistance evaporated as soon as he spoke.

"Tell me about him," Tōshirō said, voice as steady as the ground they stood upon, "about Kurosaki… I never heard about the time you spent with him before. What made him so worthy to you?"

Rukia faltered.

Her mouth opened and closed twice, but no sound emerged.

For an instant, something tense built up in the quiet between them. It felt almost as heavy as the sinister energy of an Espada. It was so suffocating that his shoulders cramped. Tōshirō resisted the urge to roll them.

Rukia faced him properly now. He was shocked to see her lips half-quirked in curiosity. At first, she looked at him like she was staring at some puzzling, foreign object from the land of the living. Tōshirō witnessed the moment it turned into something else entirely. Something too bright for words, as if she was in the presence of a shining star. She trapped him in her gaze. Glinting, purple shards of ice bathed in moonlight.

"You want to know about Ichigo?" she repeated slowly, almost as if she'd never been asked about the months she spent living under his roof before; about the reason why he'd become so mind-bogglingly _dear _to her in so short a time.

"I do."

His affirmation was followed by a laugh. A loud, sudden laugh that brightened not only her expression, but her entire demeanor. It was a good sound, no, a _great _sound.

"He's a _fool,_" she said, smiling in a way that made his chest stutter with unmanageable heat. "What else do you want to know?"

Tōshirō listened to her for a long time in the hopes that he could hear that laugh again.

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_A/N: Please review._


	21. Plushy

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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**_Plushy_**

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Tōshirō had bled for her. He had raised his voice and spat out acidic threats in her defense, interacted more than he'd care to with her _wonderful _older brother, given her all of the warmth he knew how to give—and then some—and cut through dozens of adversaries to reach her time and time again throughout the months they'd grown closer, but none of those things, not a _single_ one, put the same mind-bending expression on her face as this:

A white rabbit plushy.

Rukia stared at the object with a look that he could only describe as reverence. Her eyes were glazed over. She drew her mouth into a thin line in a poor attempt at hiding her joy, before she crushed the plushy to her chest. She nuzzled it in a way that made his equanimous expression falter. His eyebrow twitched in sudden exasperation. Tōshirō was, at once, annoyed and _defeated _by how godforsaken cute she looked in that moment.

_Months _of trying to get her to look at him and all it took was one insignificant—

_Soul King, save me, _he thought. _I know she liked Chappy, but Abarai didn't tell me just __**how **__much._

Tōshirō gripped the rabbit's head with a ferocity that had Rukia holding it closer. She glared at him in sudden protectiveness even though he was the one that had gifted it to her in the first place. An unexpected rush of darkness flooded his veins. He was almost tempted to squish it until the fabric tore just to see what she would do—_almost. _The black impulse was quickly crushed into nothing. He could be teasing when he wanted to be, but he wasn't cruel. More than that, he'd hate to see her wrath directed at him.

A part of him just wanted her to look at him the same way.

"I take it you like it then?" Tōshirō released his tight grip on the plushy, though he kept his hand on its head. Assurance, if nothing else. He wanted to make sure she wouldn't run off on him to gush about her toy to anyone willing to listen.

"_J—J_ust a little," she said, though the pleased blush that spread like flames across her cheeks as she nuzzled the large plushy again betrayed her.

"Matsumoto said it was a limited edition. It was sold out almost everywhere," he grimaced, "I had to go to nine different shops, and when I finally found a place that carried it I had to wait in line for _hours._"

_All of those people staring at me, _Tōshirō recalled, mortified. _They didn't even try to hide their damn whispers._

It definitely wasn't an experience he looked back on fondly. Spirits, he didn't even know why he was still thinking about it. He ferociously shook his head as if that would banish it from his mind.

"Just how rare is this thing?" he tacked on, as much to distract himself from his thoughts as to actually know the answer.

"Very," she shouted, abruptly animated enough to shock him. "See this carrot dress and woven basket? It shows that it's the 25th Anniversary PXX-R Super Limited Edition Chappy Ultimate: Farmer Veggie Edition. This is the second-run. The first time, they only made fifty of them. I was on a mission when they first came out, and _stupid _Renji forgot about it even though I gave him the money! Look, they even put a plastic shovel and a straw hat inside of the basket!"

Tōshirō blinked. Twice. Very slowly.

Rukia's cheeks exploded.

"_I—I _mean…"

She bit her tongue to keep from embarrassing herself further, and then they both lapsed into silence.

They stared at each other just long enough to be uncomfortable, before—

Tōshirō laughed.

It was rusty and startled out of him. He hardly recognized his own voice. The sound was low, rich, and far more distinct than he remembered. It came from somewhere deep in his chest. Tōshirō hadn't thrown his head back to laugh in years. He didn't even remember the last time he did so… as a child, maybe? All he knew was that he wanted the opportunity to do so again.

Tōshirō leaned down, so that he was eye-level with Rukia. She avoided his gaze. He cocked his head to the side at that. Tōshirō pressed his fingers against her cheek, forcing her to look at him. She did for a moment. Then, in an impressive display of stubbornness, Rukia screwed her eyes shut so tightly that he had no doubt that she saw blotches of white behind her eyelids. If she kept that up, she'd make herself dizzy once she did finally open her eyes.

Tōshirō didn't force her to. He simply grinned rakishly at her. The way she managed to make that scarred thing in his chest run off like a flock of startled birds with just a few words couldn't be good for him, but he didn't hate it. This was one weakness he'd allow. It was so unfair how he was always, _always _lost the second he looked at her.

Although his pride was still a little damaged from when he went to buy that plushy, he decided then that it was worth it.

That look on her face was the _best._

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_A/N: Please review._


	22. Fondness

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Fondness**_

_**Rangiku's POV**_

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Matsumoto Rangiku, despite—or perhaps because of—her once turbulent relationship with a certain silver-haired captain, was an expert at reading people. She thought that maybe sometimes people forgot that about her. Yes, she was perhaps a little too bubbly during inappropriate times, and yes, she was hammered too often for someone of her position, but that didn't mean she wasn't solemn, too. Rangiku was serious about her job when necessary. She could read between the lines; could cut through the bullshit between people's relationships to find the underlying issue, all with a smile on her face. She hadn't risen through the ranks solely because of her proficiency with a sword after all. Leading took more than visceral skill. It took the ability to command, to follow, and to _understand _the natures of those that stood on the rungs beneath.

Rangiku was observant to a suffocating degree. She interpreted everything from the most subtle of twitches to minute facial expressions. And when it came to reading her captain, she was unmatched. To others, he may have been a composed individual, but to her—especially when she compared him to Gin—he was little more than a child with too bright eyes and an open expression that easily showed off whatever it was he was feeling.

That was why it was so easy for her to follow his relationship with Rukia throughout the years. Rangiku didn't even need to ask him about it; she still did, of course, because getting on his nerves was one of her favorite pastimes. But whether he wanted it to be or not, his relationship with Rukia was bared before her. He revealed pieces of it with every movement: the rolling of his neck to indicate a long night; the way he'd glide his fingers across his desk in thought, before threading them together to stop himself; how he'd unknowingly smile to himself at the strangest of times at just the thought of her. There were even instances when Rangiku would get a whiff of Rukia's shampoo whenever he extended his arm to grab a stack of papers from her.

It was all there.

Shattered shards on the floor that only took her moments to piece together.

When his lips fell downward into a semi-permanent frown and his glares were too heated for a simple mishap at work, Rangiku knew that he'd fought with her or that he was struggling with something that concerned their relationship. Sometimes she'd ask him directly. She'd offer him comfort and advice when he needed it. But her captain was a prideful man, and getting him to loosen his tongue was harder than separating Captains Ukitake and Kyoraku. So, more often than not, she'd go to Rukia instead.

All it took was a quick complaint.

"Captain's in _such _a mood right now," Rangiku would say, while pretending to ignore the way Rukia stiffened at her remarks. "I don't know what his problem is!"

She'd watch, satisfied, when Rukia would excuse herself to go to him.

Rangiku was happy for her captain.

After seeing his grip tighten over the years with heartache at the loss of the people he cared for, at the damaging of his relationship with a childhood friend that was too caught up in her own hurt to see how she pained those around her, seeing him at peace was a breath of fresh air. She'd seen him attempt to tether himself to the wrong things throughout the years, such as work. He might've been a genius, but even he had a hard time finding purchase in a wavering world that demanded too much, too soon from a boy—and he _was _still a boy compared to her—that sometimes couldn't handle the strain.

So, seeing him content now was all she could ask for. Soul reapers of their caliber lived long, terrifying lives. Going through it alone was harder than even she could imagine.

Rangiku knew for a fact that he was happy with where life had taken him because there was a softness about him now that hadn't been there when she'd first met him. He was still stern, but his furrowed brow had eased somewhat. Hitsugaya had never been open with his smiles, and his relationship with Rukia didn't change that. After their marriage, however, Rangiku saw it more often than she once did. Sometimes, he'd walk into the office and his entire being would be alight with joy. No dark flashes of thunder in his gaze or chilling scowl fixed on his lips—nothing to scare off their subordinates. He had always been well-liked by his division, but this made him _approachable._

But even if Rangiku could read the progress of their relationship with nothing more than a glance, it was the physical proof of it that warmed her insides—how they twined their arms together at Kuchiki gatherings that she knew her captain _still _hated, despite the years they'd spent together or how Rukia would sometimes drop by the Tenth Division's office for no other reason than to see him. She had even left a Chappy pen on his desk that her captain never used, but kept there regardless.

Another instant of that proof was before her now.

Rangiku stepped inside of their shared office, and she had the fortune of seeing the two soul reapers she'd been thinking so fondly about curled up on the couch. The room was freezing. Low tendrils of cool air blew outward as soon as she opened the door, though neither of them seemed to care about the temperature. Rukia slept soundly against her captain. Her knuckles were clenched so tightly into his clothing that Rangiku wondered what she was dreaming about.

Hitsugaya stirred upon her entrance. He blinked rapidly, as if to escape the heavy pull of sleep, before his gaze met hers. When he wasn't reprimanding someone, her captain often spoke the same way he swung his sword: purposeful. Deliberate. No words were squandered. No breath considered scant enough to waste. He proved that when he didn't even open his mouth when she entered.

The ice-cold captain of the Tenth merely looked down at Rukia, all love, before he faced Rangiku again. He pressed his finger to his lips, then fanned his hand outward in a silent command for her to go. Return later. Paperwork wasn't as important as this.

She wasn't committed enough to her office duties to disobey.

Rangiku smiled as she turned on her heel. She resisted the urge to shout in delight. She wasn't built for silence, but she still made an effort to shut the sliding door behind her with as much gentleness as she could muster. As she stepped away from the verandah, she looked upward. Rangiku linked her fingers together and lifted them high above her head. She smiled at the sight of the unreachable sun, even as it rained heat down upon her.

Today would be a good day.

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_A/N: Please review._


	23. Fazed

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Fazed**_

_**Renji's POV**_

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Hitsugaya Tōshirō was courting his childhood friend.

_Hitsugaya Tōshirō _was courting his childhood friend.

_Hitsugaya Tōshirō was courting __**his**__—_

Renji groaned.

Because what the actual fuck?

When he'd first heard the news from an exasperated Hisagi and a drunken Matsumoto, he'd thought them joking. Surely, they must've conjured up some strange fantasy or misinterpreted a casual interaction because it was just too fetched to be real. Captain Hitsugaya was notorious for not being interested in anything beyond his own small circle, and Rukia was… she was…

His heart squeezed at the thought of her.

_An obnoxious brat, _his mind supplied, and he reaffirmed the thought with a firm shake of his head. He squashed any feeling of denial that welled up inside of him with the efficiency of a skilled blacksmith crafting a new blade. _When did he even become interested? Spirits, __**why **__is he interested? She's Rukia, damnit!_

And he didn't mean that in a bad way. Not entirely.

She was the Kuchiki princess, who had a weakness for cute toys and sweets, who had defiance in spades, who had a stubborn streak two miles long to ever yield to anyone but her brother, whose grin could light up a room more efficiently than any flame, who—

Renji could go on and on about her in ways that he was sure_ Hitsugaya-fucking-Tōshirō _wouldn't be able to. And… and…

_Shit, _he thought, rapping his knuckles hard against his temples. _I just answered my own question, didn't I?_

He groaned and clenched his fists so tightly that they ached. His whole body was shaking, and right now, he didn't know if it was from frustration or anger—possibly both.

Whenever Renji thought of Rukia, he inevitably recalled her brother—his _captain—_that lingered over her shoulder like an unshakable shadow. The same prideful man that would maim anyone foolish enough to step close enough to hurt her. Even though it wasn't immediately apparent to outsiders, Kuchiki Byakuya was protective to a suffocating degree. Renji still couldn't believe that he had once actually pleaded with the uppers in the Thirteen Court Guard Squads to keep Rukia from obtaining a higher seat. As if that wasn't bad enough, the Kuchiki family stood at the top of Soul Society. Although they had once been close enough to share the same chipped rice bowl, Rukia was nigh unreachable now.

… _But she isn't quite as unreachable for the Captain of the Tenth Division, _he thought scathingly, at once hating himself for his own weakness and ruing the careless words he'd spoken to her all those years ago at the Academy.

Renji had known that this day would come. Part of Rukia's job as a member of the esteemed Kuchiki family was to produce an heir in place of her older brother, who Renji highly doubted would ever marry again—not without a fight at least. In truth, he had just naively believed that when the day finally came around, he'd be in a position to request her hand himself. Renji didn't even consider the possibility of someone like Captain Hitsugaya going after her. More than that, he didn't think Captain Kuchiki would even approve. He had dismissed all other courtship requests thus far after all.

_But there was no reason to sack it, was there? _he considered. Captain HItsugaya was a child genius with a coincidentally similar element. The very boy, no, man that Captain Kyoraku had no qualms about admitting would be stronger than him in a few decades. He was more than qualified to be with Rukia.

And regardless of his qualifications, Captain Hitsugaya was genuine. Renji knew it simply because he'd never actively shown interest in anyone else… but that was part of the problem! Renji couldn't hate him if he was genuine! Ashy spirits, he couldn't even hate him now. Renji respected Captain Hitsugaya's power and his ability to lead too much to feel any sort of lasting animosity towards him.

He just hadn't thought his captain would actually approve Captain Hitsugaya's request to court her.

_I'm thinking in circles now. _Renji rubbed his forehead in sudden exhaustion. He couldn't properly express his anguish at that precise moment. _I'm not going to get anywhere like this. What did Rukia tell me once… something about me sucking at thinki—_

He banged the heels of his hands against his temples to dismiss the sound of her voice in his head.

For reasons he still didn't want to own up to, Renji wished Rukia was there right now to knock some sense into him. Even if she was kicking the back of his knees and laughing that damnable laugh of hers, her presence still offered him comfort like no other.

_I can't keep doing this. Standing around is the same as running away. I need to go to the cause._

Making up his mind, Renji walked toward the direction of the Tenth Division.

Renji _needed_ to know what Rukia was to him.

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_A/N: Please review._


	24. Amity

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Amity**_

_**Hollow AU. Rukia's POV.**_

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Time was immeasurable in Hueco Mundo.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into nothing.

So, Rukia wasn't exactly sure when this particular incident occurred, but she did remember what she felt when it happened. She had been an unholy cross between disturbed and incensed when she found that the stalker that had been trailing her for the last few days had the form of a little boy.

Rukia tended to strike first and look second. It's what kept her alive during her long years traversing Hueco Mundo. So, before she even saw the boy's form or face, Rukia held him high in the air with her ice-cold fingers bursting dangerously with sinister energy. Each digit wrapped around the child's throat. She didn't attempt to suffocate him, but she might as well have. It would've certainly been less scarring for the young Arrancar.

Rukia still recalled how her nails dug so deeply into the boy's jugular that if she had just added a little more pressure, she would've broken skin. The weak hollow would've bled all over the pristine sand, tainting it a red dark enough to appear black. Rukia hated the scent of rust. She hated the pathetic sobs of small hollows even more, so she was glad that she had restrained herself at the onset.

She remembered looking into the boy's one visible eye—a rich turquoise—beneath his mask and seeing her reflection. Rukia's gaze was cold and wrathful after so many years. He had exposed the lethality that she tried so hard to keep hidden underneath a veneer of composure; the same one that made her such a mighty Espada. The boy was little more than an infant in comparison to her. An errant lad that had suddenly realized that the lean woman he'd been trailing after was actually a beast, wary from experience and impatient from stress. The boy couldn't even find it in himself to scream when Rukia dropped him.

"What do you want?" Rukia asked, low and casual with power.

"_I—I…_" the boy swallowed in the hopes that the action would ease his stammer. To no avail. "I saw you a few days ago. You had no one with you. I wanted to be," his voice went small, and she had to strain herself to hear it, "your Fracción."

Rukia stared.

Well, she hadn't been expecting that.

She looked at his disheveled hair—it was the color of snow. Half of it was obscured by his bone-white mask that started from his left cheekbone and went all the way up to cover the side of his skull. It looked like a broken helmet to her. Before she could stop herself, Rukia toyed with a particularly deep ridge that he had on the side of his head. It extended outward into a spiny tusk. The boy stood perfectly still, though he did shut his one visible eye when her hand neared, as if afraid she might hurt him anymore than she already had.

Rukia killed to survive, but she still couldn't stand the sight of tiny hollows flinching. _What kind of life did I lead previously for me to still retain such banal emotions?_

When the boy opened his eye again, Rukia crouched so that they were eye-level.

"What's your name, boy?" Rukia asked.

"I don't have one."

"That's fine," she said, unperturbed. "But if you really want to follow me, if you aren't terrified by my strength, then… come."

Rukia walked off—to where, she didn't know. It took a moment, but she quickly felt the boy's presence as he trailed after her, rubbing his sore neck all the while. It was harder for him to climb Hueco Mundo's sandy dunes, small as his legs were. He grabbed her hand when he was close enough. She looked down at him as soon as he did. Her fingers twitched with the urge to get away from his closeness.

"It's hard to walk," he admitted with childish ease, _still _not learning his lesson after she so swiftly held him up by the throat barely a few minutes ago. He pointed in the unknowable distance. His expression wasn't excited, but his eye did shine with something that looked a lot like it. "There are lots of dry trees over there. Can we go?"

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_A/N: Please review._


	25. Interim

_Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach._

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_**Interim**_

_Setting: Continuation of Chapter 7_

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Orange stains littered Soul Society by the time the medic from the Fourth Division finally arrived. She knocked twice, swift and loud in the silence. It startled Tōshirō into alertness. He knew that he was snarling something awful and that his entire form twitched in his seat at the disturbance, but he had to hand it to her because she wasn't deterred in the slightest—though she did look helplessly at him for a moment. Almost like she pitied him. Tōshirō furrowed his eyebrows at that, but otherwise held his tongue.

The medic wasted no time. As soon as she stood by Rukia's bed, her hands lit as green as her eyes. She whispered something soft and familiar, before shimmering light burst forth from somewhere deep inside of her. Her energy was so bright it appeared as if she'd snatched the sun from twilight's grasp.

Tōshirō was enamored by the sight. He could do nothing but gawk, caught by the bright blaze of her energy's focus. Little more than an ignorant child, ensnared by heat. The medic's hands burned brilliantly in the darkness, lighting up all of the shadowy corners of the room.

Tōshirō searched Rukia's face.

The change wasn't immediate. The way she roused was slow. Too slow. But with each passing second, the wound that spanned from her right shoulder all the way down to her hip mended more and more. The ashen color that had lingered over her all morning finally began to lift. Tōshirō thought he imagined the sudden twitch of her brow or the downward tilt of her lips, forming a pained grimace, but when she groaned, his neck audibly cracked in his sudden snap to attention.

Not a moment later, and he was on his feet, ignoring his aching limbs. He made his way toward her with a scowl that could crack glass, fueled by a flooding surge of relief so palpable that he actually choked; unable to shout the speech he'd prepared about her recklessness, her stupidity, and her utter carelessness for her own well-being.

She was a _fool. _

His mind screamed it every time he replayed her jumping head first to take that swift downward swing that should've been meant for him.

Soon enough, the soothing wash of healing energy quivered, then siphoned away. Back into the arms of the kind-eyed medic, who licked her lips, fatigued from the strain of what must've been a powerful technique. To heal Rukia that quickly, it could only be.

"Slowly," the medic muttered, but Tōshirō barely heard.

Neither did Rukia, judging from the way her eyes darted around in search—_for me_, he realized, unable to fully smother his pleasure.

"You idiot_,_" was Tōshirō's greeting.

His lips curled up into a furious snarl, but when her eyes met his and she had the audacity to smirk, the words bent. At that precise moment, he couldn't help the pool of gladness that rocked his core. He watched as the light from the window caught in her eye. Twinkling. Hopeful. Hesitant. All of the words in his throat vanished with an inhale, and suddenly, the rest of the world no longer mattered. Perhaps it never did.

Tōshirō cleared his throat, but when he still couldn't say what he wanted, he settled for cursing her twice instead_. _The words exploded into the air. His tone alone was enough to silence the people he heard noisily chattering two rooms down.

Rukia's eyebrows scrunched, slowly processing what he'd said.

"Tōshirō," she called, peaceful enough to be insulting.

Rukia wanted to say more, but the words were lost to an uncontrollable cough, and she could only repeat his name again. Her voice was a mere croak. She needed water, unaware herself how thirsty she was. Her body would remind her soon though. So, he didn't bother.

"An idiot," Tōshirō repeated, unyielding.

"I didn't hear you the first time," Rukia said dryly.

Tōshirō frowned. His gaze ventured to her tangled hair and how it caught inside of her collar. It couldn't be comfortable. Without thinking, he reached over to fix it, but stopped when the medic beside them abruptly stood with an embarrassed squeal. Her chair clattered to the floor, shooting a cloud of dust all around them. She stared at them, her eyes wider than dinner plates. To them, she looked as if she'd just awoken from a long and tender fever-dream. Tōshirō's hand dropped in an instant. His train of thought utterly sidetracked because of the look in her green eyes. Her cheeks were redder than anything he'd ever seen.

_Is she blushing? _Tōshirō wondered. _Spirits, free me. What in the world is she blushing about?_

The medic took in their confused stares, before shaking her head and shoving a mug full of what Tōshirō could only hope was water in Rukia's unsuspecting hands. The woman was evidently the daydreaming type.

Rukia stared dumbly at the mug for all of a moment, before her thirst got the better of her. The water was gone in an instant. Tōshirō bent to dab at the trickles that fell down her chin. Despite his gentleness, his scowl was back in place and his anger was as refreshed as her throat. Tōshirō's jaw locked in his fury. He gnashed his teeth together in a poor attempt to stop it. The veins along his temples throbbed so much, he could feel it.

"For the love o_f_—_why _did you step in front of me?" Tōshirō shouted, loud enough to split his own ears with the sound. "Had that blade sunken a little deeper, you would've died!"

Rukia didn't even acknowledge his words. She only sat up a little straighter in bed, grimaced at the pain that lanced up her side, then outright groaned when the hurt echoed outward to shock the rest of her small body. Having seen that, Tōshirō, despite his fury, was by her side in an instant.

"Don't get up," he ordered.

"I'm injured," Rukia said, all stark violet eyes and righteousness, "not invalid."

He both loved and hated her stubbornness.

"Well, you need to think before you act!" Tōshirō chastised. His hands were white from their grip upon her sheets. His spirit energy exploded from his body. Ice spread across the bottom of the bed, freezing it to the floor.

The medic jumped, startled by the abruptness of his fury. Neither of them paid her any mind. Tōshirō didn't bother asking her to leave. It was obvious that he wanted her to. Thankfully, the medic got the message, having quite clearly seen his wrath. She left a tall cup brimming with—an undoubtedly acrid—medicine for Rukia, before sparing them a hesitant glance. It was clear to all of them that she wasn't fully willing to leave her patient behind with a riled captain that had a temper as infamous as his, but when Tōshirō squared his shoulders, his adam's apple visibly bobbing as he swallowed mouthfuls of cross relief, she knew that it would be okay to leave, despite the harsh line of his lips... maybe.

When Tōshirō's icy glare moved to her, however, she didn't stay to rethink that decision. She scrambled outside without so much as a farewell. The door slammed noisily behind her.

"This?" Rukia murmured once his eyes returned to her. Her voice was low and affronted. "Coming from you?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Between the two of us, who's the one more likely to lash out with their tongue when irritated?"

"Really? Insulting me at a time like this?" Tōshirō muttered in disbelief, his glare hardening. "Rukia, you almost died. You have no right, absolutely none to talk about—" he cut himself off with an exasperated groan. Somehow, he had a feeling that this conversation would get them nowhere.

And he was right.

Not a second later, he realized that she wasn't listening. It was in the way her eyes shifted to look around the room, utterly uncomprehending; the way her mouth settled into a thin frown, her eyebrows scrunched together in thought. There was a question on the tip of her tongue that clearly had nothing to do with what they were talking about. He knew her well enough by now to know that. But even when he didn't, certain sides of her had always been easier to read for him. This was one of them. It was infuriating. Especially now.

"Listen to me," he said roughly, drawing her full attention—_finally_. Soul King, he was going to claw his eyes out. "You almost died, Rukia. You shouldn't have rushed in. You shouldn't have blindly run off when you knew your arms were already too mangled to properly lift a sword or—"

"Or what?" she interrupted, snarling. "You're telling me that I should've stood back and watched you get cut open?"

"It would've been better than _you _getting slashed!" Tōshirō's control over himself splintered into nothing. His tone was scathing enough to make her glare daggers at him. "How do you think _I _felt witnessing you go down like that?"

"Casualties are inevitable in battle," Rukia argued, red in the face. "You know that. Sacrifices are sometimes nece—"

"They're all fucking necessary, aren't they?"

"You know as well as I do that it's better to lose a vice-captain than a captain."

"You're answering me rationally when you _know _that I'm not angry at you because of the correct—and _yes, _they were correct—quick-second battle decisions you made. You know what this is about."

Tōshirō tasted blood and though he struggled to unclench his jaw, it wouldn't lift. Rukia opened her mouth to respond, only to close it once his words sank in. She looked down with shame on her face and in her eyes, but there was something else there, too.

_Defiance_, he realized with no small amount of annoyance.

She at least looked apologetic, though that didn't mean he could just let it go. Tōshirō needed to get the words out now because he could feel their unsettling weight deep in the pit of his stomach. He'd be damned if he allowed such a burden to fester. It wasn't even an option.

Despite his decision, the words came out weaker than he'd intended. Softer. Less scalding. More understanding. He gritted his teeth in an attempt to make his voice sound harsher.

"I thought you died," he said, revealing the concern and deep insecurity tangled up in all of his anger. "And I thought that it was my fault… that it was my _weakness _that killed you. Proper battle tactics be damned, Rukia. Please promise me that you won't do something like that again."

Rukia hesitated for a moment, before answering, "You know I can't."

Silence now. From them both.

Tōshirō scrutinized the downward tilt of her lips that spoke of regret and defense all at once. Her eyes were dimmer than he remembered them ever being while in his presence. Rukia didn't speak, hardly even moved. Tōshirō struggled to hear her breathe, and after a full ten minutes had passed, he wondered if maybe she'd fainted in that position. But then her entire body shot up, and for an instant, she looked absolutely livid and sorry and oh-so helpless. Tōshirō couldn't help but stare at the mix of emotions that marred her face. Oh, what he'd give to know what she was thinking.

Then, as quickly as shadows blending into the night, the moment was gone.

Rukia slouched back against the headboard. Her entire body deflated, as she sighed in resignation and something else that he could more easily recognize—grief. Wild and naked on her face. It tore through his chest more cleanly than anything else he'd ever known. Still, she didn't speak and neither did he.

Although he saw the apology on her lips, he squashed the urge to shake it from her. That would only get him a squawk of displeasure. Because he knew, somewhere inside of him, that if he tried to force it from her, this room would erupt in a burst of snow and ice. Neither of them had the energy for that.

Tōshirō was tired, too. That was something Rukia realized, he noticed. Because when she spoke, her voice sudden enough to startle him, the worry he heard there shook him.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

His grip tightened, unconsciously dropping the temperature in the room another five degrees. Tōshirō caught her eye. _Stop staring, _he thought, not without warmth. One of his hands flew to his twisting mouth to shield it from her view. She could already read him so well by just looking into his eyes, he really didn't need his lips to give him away too.

"I'm fine," he murmured, his voice muffled by his fingers. There was no more force in his words now.

"That's why it's freezing in here," she said. "You shouldn't lie."

"I wasn't," Tōshirō maintained, while glaring in warning. He actually felt good. Well, better than before. Because Tōshirō couldn't feel anything right now. Any physical pain that haunted him was outdone by the churning of his insides.

"Sure you weren't."

A pause, before…

"I'm sorry," she muttered, just low enough for him to hear. It was so full of repentance and gloom that he knew it wasn't for their current conversation. She was so nauseatingly stubborn. They both were. But Tōshirō didn't want her apology—yet, a part of him accepted it all the same.

He really hated that.

"I know," Tōshirō said this time. "So am I."

He pointedly ignored the weariness in her eyes in favor of falling back into his chair and burying his face in the sheets beside her legs like a man seeking home.

A long stretch of silence followed. It allowed the knotted thing in the air between them to loosen. It was only after he lost track of the minutes that passed that he reached for the cup of medicine that the medic left. He brought it up to his nose, and his entire face crinkled at the horrid scent. It was like getting a whiff of old socks and death. He didn't envy her. Tōshirō judged anyone that would.

"Drink up," he told her.

The yelp of horror that abruptly escaped her lips made him smirk. Rukia's eyes pleaded with him to put it back down. He almost did, too. It was that pungent. But he wasn't that sympathetic, especially if the matter concerned her health. Tōshirō placed the cup carefully in her trembling hands, his eyes warning her not to purposely spill it.

"Are you trying to poison me?" she asked, staring at the gooey contents. The sight made her insides squeeze in apprehension, and she fought to keep her breathing even. It would be the death of her. She just knew it. "I said I was sorry. How could you still make me drink th—"

"Drink," Tōshirō ordered, merciless, before making his way to the door. A decision he rued after one step. He fought the urge to stumble in her presence, entirely unwilling to yield to the pain riding up his torso and pressing the life from his lungs. He hid his grimace with his back.

Tōshirō stopped only briefly to check if she braved the concoction, but instead found her staring at him with eyes that were too wide for his liking. Sheer surprise kept him, rather than any restraining force. His insides churned in understanding. She was watching him leave her.

_Damn sap, _he thought with no real strength.

"You're leaving?"

"What does it look like?"

She didn't even stop to consider her words. "I need you here, Tōshirō."

"…. For what?"

"Nothing." Rukia said, quiet. "I just… need you."

His chest heated, despite himself. "I'll be back," he assured, the words spilling out of their own volition. "I just need to call Matsumoto. I told her I would check-in with her once you woke."

"I'll go with you."

Tōshirō held his hand up when she made a valiant, but useless attempt to scramble to her feet. "No, you need rest. I already said I'd be back. You know I wouldn't—"

"—lie to me," Rukia finished, then waved him off. She settled down as soon as his lips formed that final sentence. Those magic words that were a balm to all of her wounds. "I know."

"Good."

Rukia flashed him a weak smile. He awkwardly returned it. He was sure that the corner of his mouth quirked up into something else entirely, but it was close enough. It made her laugh at least.

Shuffling his feet and holding his breath for a good five seconds, Tōshirō gathered his wits, and then left like a monster would swallow him whole if he didn't. The pain of his side remained forgotten, numbed by something hot and stifling and still too new to name.

Tōshirō's ears burned red with the possibility that maybe—_just maybe_—he wasn't the only one that thought of this warmth between them as home.

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_A/N: Please review._


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